


My Unconquerable Soul

by maximoffs, Saddaughter16



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Banter, Blow Jobs, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Canon Divergence - Captain America: The First Avenger, Canon Divergence - Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Canon Temporary Character Death, Canonical Character Death, Car Accidents, Child Death, Doctor Sleep Fusion AU, Explicit Sexual Content, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Humor, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Kissing, M/M, Mind Control, Miscarriage, Multiple Pairings, Murder, Mutual Pining, Parent Death, Suicide Attempt, Top Steve Rogers, Torture, Winter Soldier Umbrella of Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:00:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 99,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27584423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maximoffs/pseuds/maximoffs, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saddaughter16/pseuds/Saddaughter16
Summary: In 1928, Bucky Barnes follows Steve Rogers into an alley, and declares them friends.From then on they’re inseparable, constant companions in each others lives-- on the playground and off - sharing their dreams and secrets.But Bucky Barnes has a big secret. Born with the Shining, he has to navigate the world with a separate set of rules. And there are others who would hunt him for that power and feed from it.“Arnim. What do we have here?” Johann says from behind them. His eyes are wide and intensely focussed on the boy. He circles to the opposite side, trapping their prey in between them. The boy has become still, like a startled gazelle waiting for its chance to run.“We appear to have a sightseer Johann.” Arnim says. “Not from Germany it would seem, but speaks perfect German.”Johann stops in front of the boy whose eyes snap up and meet Johann’s cold hard gaze.Johann’s face splits into a cruel grin.Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers grow up, go to war, hunt Hydra, and fight to keep Bucky safe together.A Captain America/Doctor Sleep Fusion AU
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 94
Kudos: 65
Collections: Not Another Stucky Big Bang 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been so incredibly lucky during the course of writing this story. Funny thing, this wasn’t the story I had planned on writing when I first signed up. When I boarded my flight from San Francisco, I was working on a shunkyclunks fic, but the in-flight movie I decided to watch was Dr. Sleep and that was the end of my old story and the beginning of this one. I'm so glad I did because Dr. Sleep is how I was lucky enough for maximoffs to choose my fic. I could not have asked for a better partner in this journey. Her moodboards are beautiful and the playlists she created for the story are perfect. And if that's not enough, she's simply a wonderful person that anyone would be lucky to get to know.
> 
> This story would be an absolute mess if it weren’t for my two hardworking betas. Seriously, Ris and SoftObsidian74 made this so much better and I cannot thank them enough. Lastly, to the Mods at NASBB, thank you so very much. After a decade off of writing, this was such a fun experience to dip my toes back into fanfiction.
> 
>   
> Please check out the beautiful moodboard and awesome playlist created by maximoffs

[My Unconquerable Soul I Playlist by maximoffs](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4YNE3TKyWPz9IM8qnz6q1S)

George Barnes is five when he realizes that his mother is magic. When she tells him stories, they come to life inside his mind. He sees Romanian princes and brothers and heroes. _Such brave princes, baietelul meu, my little boy_ she says and George watches the two princes travel through the dark forest. _There comes a time for all of us when we’re called to be brave._ One prince emerges from the forest, sad and alone. _But bravery doesn’t look the same for everyone._ The lone prince stops. _For some it’s going on after loss._ The prince turns back to the forest. _And for others, it’s going back to reclaim what’s theirs._ The prince unsheathes his sword and with sure-footed and determined strides, disappears back into the forest. He feels bad for all the other kids who have to come up with the pictures themselves.

George is ten and he learns that he can’t lie to his mother. That’s not true. George is ten and he learns that his mother has always known when he lies. It’s her _shine._ The same thing he loved about storytime has turned against him. This is not magic, he thinks bitterly, it’s a punishment. He’s angry and jealous of all the kids whose mothers can’t see through their lies.

George is fifteen and Europe goes to war. It’s all he hears about at school. The United States will stay neutral for sure, the other boys say. It’s what all their fathers say. When he tells this to his mother, with all the certainty of a fifteen year old, she looks at him with devastated eyes. She stays silent, but that’s alright. He knows how to make a full picture from the small pieces she gives him. The other boys are wrong. Their fathers are wrong. He feels cheated that he can’t wait in ignorance with them.

George is seventeen and he meets the most _beautiful_ woman he’s ever seen walking home from work. Their eyes meet through the window of the diner he’s passing and promptly trips over his feet. When he gets back up, face burning with embarrassment, he finds her in the doorway with her head thrown back, one hand over her stomach and the other over her chest, her loose curls bouncing as she shakes with laughter. He’d throw himself on the ground a thousand times over just to witness that smile. When she finally gathers herself she takes a step towards him and asks if he’s alright. Never better, he tells her. And he means it. Ten minutes later he’s back on his way home and his mind repeats one thought over and over. Winnie Winnie Winnie. When he arrives home his mother barely spares him a glance before declaring that he’s going back to that diner tomorrow. He nods in agreement.

George is eighteen and he meets someone like his mother for the first time. Down in the trenches on the western front, he’s determined to get to know the fellow soldier who seems to always be in the know. When pressed, he insists it’s just luck or intuition but after eighteen years with his mother, George is suspicious. So he takes a chance and asks one night in a rare moment of quiet and seclusion. JR denies any preternatural abilities, which George expects, so he changes tactics and tells him about his mother. It’s dangerous, and George is nervous. He’s never talked about the shining out loud with anyone but his mother. But as soon as JR hears _shining,_ the facade drops. Most of what JR tells him he’s already heard from his mother or, more often, he’s figured out for himself by watching her. But as the night progresses, JR quietly tells him the darker stories he never heard before. There are others who shine, and they travel in packs, using their abilities to hunt and murder children to drain them of their shine. JR tells him stories late into the night. George listens calmly as his childhood memories are rewritten with this new information.

George is twenty-one and he’s standing outside the home he grew up in. The air is crisp this early in the morning and the sky is only just starting to lighten in the east when it comes time to say goodbye. In the years since George fell in front of that window, Winnie and his mother have grown close. A couple of feet away the two women hug each other fiercely. His mother forces herself to break the hug first and instead fusses and tightens the scarf around Winnie’s neck. Winnie smiles and scrubs away the tears on her cheeks, but otherwise lets her mother in law adjust the wool scarf until she’s satisfied. After she’s sure Winnie won’t catch a draft, his mother lays a hand gently on the swell of Winnie’s stomach. He worries again at leaving his mother alone in the city but he knows it’s no use to try to convince her again. Brooklyn is her home, she’d told them both when they’d asked her to come with them. She has no interest in learning a new way of life in Indiana, but she thanks them all the same. So here he stands, moments from parting with his mother for the second time in his life and he already misses her. He steps towards the pair to give his mother one last long hug before he and Winnie need to head off to catch their train. He leans his cheek against the top of her head and tries to think about their future in Indiana instead of what he’s leaving behind. There’s a job lined up from him at a hospital in between Shelbyville and Indianapolis. They’ll be staying at the old farmhouse Winnie grew up in with her family until the baby comes. And while living with a group of strangers holds no appeal to George, Winnie assures him that they’re not altogether terrible, even if she herself had left at the first opportunity. _This will always be your home,_ his mother whispers into his ear. He nods and gives her one last squeeze and then steps away.

George is twenty-two and holding his son for the first time. Never, not one single moment of his life, had he imagined that he had the capacity to love so deeply. He cradles James’ small body to his, runs his hands softly over baby fine hair and breathes in. James, fed, clean, and warm, sleeps soundly against his chest. _James Buchanan Barnes,_ he whispers and walks back to the corner of the room where Winnie rests. He passes Winnie’s mother and sister talking softly with the midwife and sits on the edge of the bed. _Bucky,_ Winnie says softly, _we’re calling him Bucky._ He leans in and kisses her and then looks into her grey eyes and repeats, _Bucky._

George is twenty-three. He stands under the hot afternoon sun beside his wife’s grave. The service concluded...George isn’t certain how long ago, but long enough that all Winnie’s family have made their way back into the farmhouse. But George...he hasn’t been able to bring himself to follow. Can’t will his body to move away. So here, in the small family plot, shocked with grief, he remains with Bucky clinging to his shirt collar, whining and rubbing his sweaty forehead against Goerge’s neck. He should move to get the baby out of the sun, but...how can he? How can he leave his wife? The ache in his chest intensifies. He folds at the waist and his legs tremble. Bucky wiggles unhappily in his grasp. He doesn’t want to drop the baby, but he can’t keep his legs under him. Help comes a moment later when his mother pulls Bucky from his arms just as his knees hit the hard packed ground. He throws his arms forward and claws with numb fingers at the dry grass as the sob that’s been lodged in his chest finally, finally breaks free. His mother’s free hand rubs up and down his back in a slow cadence until his breathing slows. He looks up and she’s swaying softly as Bucky lays his head on her shoulder. He’s babbling _momma, momma, momma_ like Winnie is standing right behind them. Like George could turn around and sweep her into his arms. What a splendid alternative that would be to this new reality. He shakes out his arms and legs to gain enough feeling for him to push off the ground and make his way over to his mother. She extends her free arm and he slides in and rests his forehead against her shoulder. _Sometimes,_ she says, _the prince has to be brave by going on after loss._

Bucky is two years old when he starts saying his mother’s name. In the morning, George goes to get him from his crib and notices that the normal _‘bye bye momma’_ babble has changed to _‘bye bye Winnie. Bye bye momma’._ His breath hitches in this bittersweet moment. He doesn’t say Winnie’s name often, no matter how much he thinks it. _That’s right, baietelul meu,_ he tells Bucky as he pulls him from the crib, _your momma’s name is Winnie and she loved you very very much._

George is twenty-five when he gets remarried to Millie. He’ll never stop loving Winnie. This was a road he thought they would be traveling together back when he was eighteen. And when he was nineteen and twenty and every day until she died. He could raise Bucky on his own. He could. But even if he misses Winnie so much that it feels like she pulled half of his soul with her to the other side, what’s left of him here on earth...is lonely. So he marries Millie and after the wedding, he goes back to the small apartment he and Bucky were living in to finish packing. There’s not much. He and Winnie hadn’t accumulated anything extravagant during their short marriage and all Bucky has are clothes, a quilt from George’s mother, and a stuffed horse. They move to another farm, but this one...Millie’s family’s homestead...is situated on almost one hundred acres and clear on the other side of Shelbyville. It’s nothing like Winnie’s family’s small farm. Millie’s family did well during the war, bought up surrounding land, and could even afford a tractor to keep it up. George still hates it but agrees to move there all the same in hopes that Bucky and Millie bond now that they’re together.

Bucky is five and Becca is one. Millie has, rather unreasonably in George’s opinion, forbidden Bucky to call Rebecca, ‘Becca’. She insists that it's because Rebecca is named after her mother, who is _Rebecca,_ not Becca. Secretly, George thinks the real reason is more disappointing than that. Mille doesn’t like Bucky. Sure, Millie had liked the idea of being Bucky’s mother, back when his vocabulary didn’t involve ‘Winnie’ quite as much. For now, it seems to be a war between them and while George does love his wife, he finds himself increasingly annoyed with her behavior. Privately, he rejoices in his son’s mischievousness as he watches Bucky grab his sister’s little hands, lean in real close and whisper re- and then shout _\- BECCA_ to his sister’s absolute delight.

* * *

George is twenty-eight and is so very desperate to get a full night of sleep.

It’s been a long night. He stayed in the city to meet his mother at the train station. The trip home is long enough that by the time they made it to the farm, his mother is sufficiently up to date on all the goings on in the house including the sleeping issues plaguing her grandson. George had hoped that tonight would be different, that in the morning his mother would look at him expectantly after not hearing a peep out of Bucky. But here he is, awakened not two hours after laying down to sleep. _Lord_ he is exhausted. Please, someone tell him where to wave his white flag. He’s got a couple undershirts that he’s more than willing to sacrifice to the cause. Anything, if it means a night of relief for Bucky.

He just feels so impotent. If it were his own nightmares from the war, that would be alright. Not exactly welcome, but bearable. If it were baby Annie waking up, that would be alright. She’s a baby, it’s to be expected. But that baby girl loves her sleep and puts all the other six month olds in Shelbyville to shame with how she power sleeps through the night.

It’s Bucky again that wakes him up, his soft whimpers breaking the stillness of the farmhouse. He stays still, ears straining, willing Bucky to fall back to sleep. Instead it goes on for the next five minutes.

Silence...whimper...silence.

Next to him, Millie gives an irritated huff in her sleep as she rolls over; annoyed with Bucky even when she’s not conscious of it. He’ll get up if it happens again. The entire house will be up in four hours and he doesn’t want to deal with grumpy, sleep deprived in-laws...again. So he waits. He waits and listens and he stares up at the ceiling, breathing slow and steady while he wills the night to stay silent.

Another whimper, and Millie rolls back over to face him.

“Again? If he wakes Annie or the others, George,” she whispers angrily.

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. It’s not like Bucky can help it. Of course he doesn’t want Annie or the others to wake up, but her comments make it difficult not to get riled up given how harsh and unfair she is towards Bucky. Their living conditions are less than ideal, he’s more than well aware. This farm, like many that had expanded during the war, is failing, placing pressure on the family to produce more and more. To make it all the more awkward on the farm, George doesn’t actually, well, farm. He never did on Winnie’s family’s farm either. Sure, he helps out when needed and is able to do a fair amount of physical labor around the place when the job calls for an extra set of hands. But the running of the farm falls to his wife’s brother and to a lesser extent, her father. Millie helps around the house with her sister and mother while George is at work at the hospital. Point is, every day is a long day on a farm and it’s even longer when you’re woken up every night. They haven’t exactly been asked to leave but at this point they’re less of welcomed guests and more like a stressful obligation.

“Come on Mills,” he soothes,“I’ll go calm him down before anyone else wakes. Annie won’t make a peep. Promise.”

Before he can move to go, she reaches out and grabs a hold of his hands. Her eyebrows are drawn together in heated glare. “You coddle him too much. He cannot keep waking the house for your attention.” Three nights ago he’d stayed in bed, reasoning that Bucky would calm down if he didn’t get the desired outcome. It was a terrible decision. It took an hour for Bucky to cry himself back to sleep, and come morning, not only did he feel like the worst parent ever, but everyone in the house was feeling the effects of sleep deprivation as well.

“I won’t be long. Promise.” He goes to tell her but she’s already half turned the opposite direction before the sentence is half out of his mouth.

He swings his legs out of bed and rubs the sleep from his eyes. With a soft grunt he pushes himself to his feet and makes his way into the short hallway between their rooms but stops abruptly when he sees his mother outside the children’s room. She presses a finger to her lips and waves him over. He stops opposite of her in the doorway and looks inside. Bucky isn't crying anymore but his cheeks still have tear marks and he hiccups in between breaths. He stares at the empty space next to him on the bed.

“Want you to stay momma,” Bucky’s little voice pleads. Next to him, George hears a soft gasp from his mother.

“I don’t like it here without you momma,” he shakes his head. “The lady won’t stop crying and I can’t sleep. Please don’t go.”

George makes a quick visual sweep of the room and upon finding it empty besides his son, closes his eyes and listens for anything out of the ordinary in the night. A moment passes with nothing but the usual sounds of the old farmhouse.

“She saw me at the hospital when papa let me pet Buckeye and give him a sugar cube. And she talked to me and then she followed us home.” George remembers taking Bucky to St. Francis nearly two weeks prior to see the hospital’s semi-retired draft horses. Of all of the horses, Bucky _loves_ Buckeye best, delighted that their names are so similar. And George loves watching his son overcome with joy.

“I won’t go nowhere near her momma I _promise,”_ Bucky says, sitting up straight and crossing his arms, “alright momma. I said I _promise.”_ Then a quiet “I love you too.”

His poor Bucky. Having let the conversation, even an imagined one, run to its conclusion, George prepares to slip through the doorway. He shares another look with his mother who looks stunned by what they’ve seen. She nods for him to go on, but stays rooted in place.

“Bucky, what’s got you up tonight, băiețelul meu?” He asks as he lowers himself onto the bed. Bucky looks up at him with tear filled eyes and slides out of his blankets to climb into his lap and circles his arms around his neck. George runs his fingers through his son's curls.

Bucky ducks his head down and pushes in under George’s chin, “You don’t need to be scared. Did you have a bad dream?”

He feels Bucky’s head shake. “Not a dream papa.”

“Alright then, not a dream. Why don’t you tell me about it?” he prompts as he pulls Bucky closer. He looks over to his mother, now hovering inside the doorway.

“There’s a lady. She’s so sad papa. I think she’s lost and can’t find her way home. She’s not being mean or nothing. She’s just so scared and sad. She makes me sad and scared for her and I can’t go to sleep. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry Bucky. It’s not your fault. After the lady scared you, then momma came to help? To make sure the lady didn’t hurt you?” He asks.

“She can’t do nothing,” Bucky says. “The lady ain’t for real. She _was_ real. But not no more. Momma said not to talk to her and she will go away.” George smiles to himself. His Winnie, fighting off their son’s monsters five years after she’s passed. Even if it is only in his imagination.

“Darling, I know it must feel so real to you, but I promise you that there’s no lady. What you saw was only a dream.”

Bucky stays still and quiet for long enough that George thinks he’s fallen back to sleep. Then Bucky shakes his head again and pulls himself out from where he’s got himself tucked in and shifts his body until they’re face to face. Wide blue eyes stare into his, and two little hands frame his cheeks. George knows his son means serious business by the small furrow between his eyebrows.

“Papa,” he whispers, “you need to listen very careful. Momma says you need to talk to grandma.”

“I’m here Bucky.” His mother says softly, moving from where she stood in the doorway. The bed dips where she sits.

“Grandma Catina!” Bucky whispers loudly. “You’re here.”

“I told you she was coming this morning Bucky.” George teases.

“That was so long ago papa.” Bucky says. He climbs out of George’s lap and moves over to where his grandmother sits and gently gives her a hug.

“Oh goodness, well I know I’ve gotten older but I’ve not grown that fragile since Becca was born have I?” She says with a smile and squeezes Bucky back tightly. Then she makes him sit in front of her and takes an assessing look, as if she hadn’t been looking at him for the last half hour from the doorway. George shakes his head. “Oh look at you,” she coos, “still got your momma’s curls. And you’re still...so _bright.”_

_So bright,_ his mother says to Bucky but when she says it, she looks right at George. “The shining?” he asks her in a whisper.

She nods. _Still,_ she had said. _He’s still so bright._ As in, he’s always been bright. Always had the shining. And she never told him. How could she have not told him?

“What’s the shining?” Bucky whispers in between them. He bounces on his knees in excitement. Whispering means secrets and what kid doesn’t want to know a secret?

George remembers Winnie asking the same question. It was a hot day in Brooklyn when he and his mother sat with her and she listened to the thing they’d kept secret. They told her stories from George’s childhood of the things his mother could do. And then, because his mother would not, he’d told Winnie of the monsters he learned of in a cold trench in Europe.

“The shining,” his mother starts, “is why you can see your momma when she comes to visit. It’s why the spirit of that woman came to you and why-.”

“Mother,” he cuts in breathlessly. Both his mother and Bucky turn to him. He runs his clammy hands over his pajama pants. He can’t handle any more revelations tonight. “Bucky. Is there...is there anyone here now?” Bucky looks around the room and shakes his head. “Alright, that’s good. That’s good.” He feels a little light headed. “Then it’s time for bed. You can speak with grandma Catina in the morning.”

Both Bucky and his mother look back at him with disappointment, but he doesn’t give them a chance to argue. He pushes off the bed. His hands are clammy again. He bends over and gives Bucky a quick kiss on the forehead and then he’s out of the room, down the hall, out the back door, and across the yard.

_We may have to leave, Winnie. If any of the children have it, I’d feel better being close to my mother._

He walks until he’s reached the copse of trees behind the house. There’s a tire swing hanging from one of the sturdier oaks. He grabs hold of the thick rope, puts his weight against it so that the rope burns and scratches at his hands. He lays his head against his forearm, closes his eyes, and waits. It doesn’t take long before he hears soft steps in the grass. He doesn’t turn when they stop.

“How could you not tell me?” he asks. “He’s my child. She was my wife.”

His child who _has_ been talking to his dead mother. Oh Winnie, he misses her so much. It’s agonizing to imagine that she’s been here this entire time. How many times has he heard Bucky say her name. How many times had she been there watching?

“I didn’t know about Winnie,” his mother says. “I saw her at the cemetery the day we buried her. But spirits fade after time. I didn’t think she’d still be here.”

“And the shining?” he pushes. “Are you going to lie and say that you didn’t know about that either?”

“No, that I kept from you. George, it would have changed nothing. Except you would have constantly worried and most likely treated him differently.”

“He _is_ different. And that was my decision to make. Maybe it would have made a difference,” George says angrily, finally turning to face his mother.

“That’s not the way the shining works. You don’t get to _control_ it just because you want to. When it’s time to be taught or to teach, the circumstances will reveal themselves,” his mother shoots back desperately. George has only witnessed his mother upset a handful of times in his life. He’s only witnessed her cry twice. Once was when his father died. The other time now, standing in front of him in a nightgown in the middle of the night, in the middle of an Indiana farm. “His shine is so bright. I knew this day would come, but I would never, never, purposely put him in danger. And Winnie...I loved her too. She was like a daughter to me and I’m grateful that Bucky has been able to see her.”

“I’ve missed her so much mom. To only have known she was here,” he says. His anger ebbs, overtaken by the sorrow he thought he was rid of.

“What good would knowing have done, George? So you could have tortured yourself looking for any sign of her? You are _my_ child. I wanted to see you happy. And you needed to move on.”

“That was my decision to make,” he repeats, choking back tears and bending at the waist. Finally, his mother moves to him and gathers him into her arms.

“We’ve been here before,” she says tenderly. Six years ago, at a farm not far away, she held him together then too. “Băiețelul meu, I know it hurts, but she’s not here for you. You had your time here together. You’ll have your time together when you move on. She stayed for her child.”

He nods his head against her shoulder, takes a step back and clears his throat. “What do we do now?”

“We go get some rest and then tomorrow, I’m going to meet my newest granddaughter. But when I leave next week, Bucky will go with me. You, Millie and the girls will follow when you’re able,” she says. His mother has always been able to lay out a plan like it should be obvious.

“Millie’s going to hate Brooklyn.”

“This farm’s near dead, George. Even an old city girl like me can tell. And there’s a lot of ugliness and evil coming alive in Indiana. The sooner you get out of here, the better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grandma Catina is paraphrasing and adapting a Romanian fairy tale called The Morning Star and the Evening Star by Mite Kremnitz.
> 
> Băiețelul meu, according to Google and another website is my little boy or my boy in Romanian.


	2. Chapter 2

“Bucky Barnes is the _worst,”_ Steve says as he collapses down at the kitchen table. He grimaces, waiting to be scolded for once again being too rough with the furniture. His mother, at the stove fixing supper, hardly even acknowledges his arrival. Instead, she wipes the sweat from her brow with the sleeve of her shirt. It’s so hot, he thinks, that she probably doesn’t even have to turn on the stove to cook dinner. Their small apartment is so hot that he feels like he’s boiling right along with the stew. They’ll never be comfortable again. They’ll live here like this, in their own dirty sweat forever.

He sighs loudly. _Finally,_ his mom turns to him.

She points a long, slender finger at him. “Don’t throw yourself on the furniture,” she scolds. Then, “who’s Bucky Barnes and why is he ‘the worst’?”

Bucky Barnes, he thinks, has obviously been sent here to be his nemesis. He is clearly the antagonist in Steve’s story. He is the direct antithesis to everything Steve stands for. Bucky Barnes is new and shiny and everyone loves him. The older kids, the younger kids. The kids that Steve’s been in school with his _entire_ life, they all like Bucky Barnes better than Steve Rogers. It’s not like Steve actually likes most of the kids he goes to school with on account that they’ve almost all bullied him at one time or another, but still, he was here first. Brooklyn born and raised. Bucky is from _Indiana._ Who’s from _Indiana_ anyway? Boring people, that’s who. If anyone’d bother to ask, he could have told them that.

“New kid,” he mumbles as he stares off into the distance. He definitely does not pout. He’s ten and far too old to pout over the likes of _“Bucky Barnes,”_ he seethes. What kind of name is _Bucky._ What an absolute dud of a name.

“Wow, Steven,” his mother says as she looks him over before turning back to the stove. “This must be serious if he’s got you near speechless. That doesn’t happen often. At least you don’t look like you’ve been fighting today.”

“I haven’t fought him,” Steve answers, “yet.” Bucky Barnes would have to know that he existed first. Although, he’s sure by the end of the week someone will have told him about Steve. It’s only a matter of time.

“Steven…” She turns and looks at him, eyebrows raised in warning, “is this how we welcome new people?”

“No ma’am,” he responds reluctantly.

“Set the table please,” she tells him. She turns off the stove and gets the stew on the table while the vegetables cool. “Maybe you two can be friends? It can’t be easy moving to a new school at the end of the term.”

Steve places the plates on the table. “He’s not going to want to be friends with me, Ma. _Everyone_ likes him. It’s not normal. No one should have that kind of power. Besides, he’s not going to give up his popularity to make friends with the kid everyone hates.”

“Oh, Steve.” His ma comes up behind him and wraps her arms around him in a firm hug. He leans his head back against her. “Then he doesn’t deserve to have you as a friend. Just like the rest of them.”

He sags a little into his mother’s embrace, spoons and forks dangling from his hand and takes a moment to feel sorry for himself. He wants friends, but he doesn’t think that he should have to change to get them, even if he could change. He likes who he is, even if he has to make adjustments to how he goes about his day. It’s just that, it's never been easy to make friends. He had to start school a year later than most of the kids in his grade and even now he tends to miss more school than all of them combined. He’s constantly behind on his studies. The kids at school tend to gang up on him. At least once he started hitting back it made them think twice about picking a fight, even if now the kids don’t like him because he refuses to back down.

“Thanks Ma,” he says. She gives him one last squeeze and ruffles his hair a bit before going back to the stove. Steve finishes setting the table and takes his seat. He waits for his mother to sit down and serve herself before he serves himself. His ma smiles at him, calls him a _little gentleman_ like she always does. He rolls his eyes in response, like he always does, and they eat.

* * *

Two days later Steve is dragging his overheating body down the street when he hears a sharp _hey_ behind him. The _‘hey’,_ sounds innocent enough, but that kind of talk never bodes well for Steve. It’s usually the precursor to a fight and he’s really just too hot to fight. He ducks his head and tries to walk faster but the _hey_ comes again and a little closer this time. Steve takes a sharp right turn into a nearby alleyway, quickly shrugs off his bookbag and raises his fists up in front of his face. If he’s going to fight he can at least get the upper hand for a moment before the inevitable happens.

A moment passes with nothing happening, and then another before Steve drops his fists and moves cautiously towards the entrance of the alley. He edges along the wall and slowly moves to peak around the corner, the side of his face pressed against the bricks and suddenly he’s face to face with -

“Bucky Barnes,” he growls.

“Hey!” Bucky answers back in surprise. Apparently that’s _all_ he can say. Steve imagines Bucky as a parrot, _hey, hey, heeeyyy_ and laughs to himself. He is so going to draw that when he gets home. Bucky narrows his eyes at Steve. Steve narrows his eyes back at Bucky. As Bucky advances, Steve moves back further into the alley, careful to keep the other boy in his sights.

_“You_ shouldn’t make fun of people,” Bucky says like the snotty little know-it-all brat Steve just _knows_ he is. He strides into the alley like he doesn’t have a single care in the world.

“I didn’t say a word to you. _You_ shouldn’t be following people,” Steve says. He’s not sure why Bucky is here. Maybe beating Steve up is part of his final initiation into the popular groups in school. Well, Steve will not be making it easy for him. Although, Bucky doesn’t look prepared to fight. The kid doesn’t even have his fists up. He’s just got them stuffed into his pockets. And he’s shifting from foot to foot like _he’s_ the one working up courage.

“Well, what do you want?” Steve asks impatiently. He forces himself to stand his ground. He didn’t do anything wrong. He was just walking home. And now look, he’s probably either going to get beat up or pass out here in the alley from heatstroke.

“The shade’s not too bad over here,” Bucky tells him from the opposite side of the alley. “You should come over here. I think you’re standing in the only spot in the alley that has sun.”

Steve looks around and finds that Bucky’s right, _of course._ He rolls his eyes, annoyed that it needed to be pointed out by Bucky. Maybe it’s a new tactic. Bucky’s not going to punch him, he’s just going to point out every stupid thing Steve does for the rest of his life. On the other side of the alley Bucky laughs which just causes Steve’s suspicions to rise all over again. He musters up the most nonchalant walk possible and moves out of the sun and into the shade. The relief is instantaneous, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to trust Bucky. He stays well out of punching and kicking range, stands straight and faces Bucky head on.

“Again. What do you want?” Steve asks.

Bucky fidgets with his hands for a moment before answering, “You’re the only kid our age at school I haven’t had a chance to meet yet. You always leave before I can say hello. So...you know...hello.”

Steve stares, dumbfounded, at the other boy. “You...wanted to say hello to me?” Steve says, sarcastically. “It doesn’t seem like you needed any more friends.”

“I didn’t know if I wanted to be _friends_ with you. I just _wanted_ to say hello. Now I’ve said hello and I think I want to be friends with you but you’re...very suspicious,” Bucky responds.

“When you get beat up as often as I do being suspicious is just smart,” Steve shoots back. It’s clear that Bucky isn’t here to beat him up so he relaxes and leans against the warm brick.

Bucky takes his time responding. Steve had told his mother that Bucky is the worst, but really, he’s just kinda strange. And surprisingly, not even a little bit mean so far. “They shouldn’t beat you up, Steve,” Bucky says, suddenly more serious than before.

“Yeah, I think that too. But thanks, I guess,” Steve responds with a sarcastic little laugh. “It’s nice to hear it from someone other than my mother.”

Bucky moves a step closer to him, staring at Steve intensely, “It’s the truth, Steve. They _really_ shouldn’t beat you up. There’s not a lot of people like you that I've ever met. You’re really special, I know it.” Bucky stares at him again. This kid is so odd. Then his face breaks into a smile. “Alright then, it’s decided.”

“What’s decided?” Steves asks, confused. “We didn’t decide anything other than I shouldn’t be getting bullied at school but, and no offense, I don’t think you’re going to change the mind of all the kids who’ve been beating me up for years. No matter how popular you are.”

“No, not that. It’s decided. We’re friends now. If anyone messes with you, they mess with me. And I’ll follow you,” Bucky says a bit out of breath. He looks excited, energized even. Like making friends with Steve was everything he’s ever wanted.

“What? Follow me where? Home?” Steve’s ma won’t appreciate an unannounced guest.

“Anywhere. Everywhere. End of the line, Stevie.” He starts backing away from Steve and moves towards the sidewalk.

“What? Hey! End of what line?” Steve asks just as Bucky makes it to the mouth of the alleyway.

“Sorry, I’ve gotta go see my grandma! I can’t play today, Steve, but tomorrow, wait for me after class!” Then Bucky Barnes is gone. Steve watches Bucky head move through the crowd until finally he loses sight of him.

“What just happened?” Steve whispers to himself.

* * *

Steve had thought that Bucky would get bored with him within a week, but a month later he hasn’t been able to shake him. By the time they’re out of school for the summer, Bucky has lost any chance of being the most popular kid in school and Steve had intentionally dragged the other boy into fight after fight, even those he knew they couldn’t win, just to see if this is for real. But Bucky just smiles every time and follows Steve, diving into the fight only to emerge bloodied and scraped up.

Bucky, for his part, is far more mischievous than Steve has ever dreamed of being. The best thing is that they never get caught. Bucky always knows where to go and how to get where they need to be. Bucky can find the best abandoned building to break windows at. Bucky seems to always know when and where fire hydrants are being opened so they can cool off with other kids. He somehow knows how they can sneak into baseball games. Not even the little minor league games. _Dodger games._

Steve finds himself liking Bucky more and more. They always walk at Steve’s pace and take breaks before Steve has to ask for one. Bucky doesn’t make him feel bad when he doesn’t have the energy to wander far from the apartment. He feels like he should say thank you, but his mother told him that he shouldn’t thank people for being decent to him. But he still feels grateful, because it’s something the other kids would never have done for him.

And Bucky, he continues to be the same odd boy who befriended Steve in that alleyway. There are moments that Steve will catch Bucky staring at him. Other times Bucky will stop in the middle of what they’re doing and just stare out into space at nothing for varying lengths of time. Then they’ll move on like nothing ever happened. Just like Bucky doesn’t point out Steve’s differences, Steve returns the favor. But he can’t help becoming more and more curious.

One afternoon they’re walking back from watching another film Bucky had snuck them into when he stops abruptly at the street they usually take to get home.

“Lets go the long way around”, Bucky says.

The theatre’s a good walk from home and the “long way around” will add more blocks to their already lengthy trip but Steve agrees, despite his sore legs. They travel a couple blocks before Bucky steers them toward the shaded stoop of a shop. They sit side by side, staring out at the road as Steve catches his breath and rests his legs.

“Sorry we’ve gotta walk further,” Bucky says softly, still staring out in the street. He pushes his hair up off of his forehead. The heat and humidity make his hair nearly unbearable, as he likes to say. But his pa won’t let him cut his hair short. Steve thinks it’s pretty strange, but he’s never met Bucky’s pa and his own pa died when he was too young to remember. Maybe it’s a father thing, he wouldn’t know.

“It’s alright. This stoop is a good find though. At least we can sit for a little bit,” he says in between breaths.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, still in a hushed tone.

“Hey Bucky?” Steve begins cautiously.

Bucky finally looks over to him.

“What happens when you stop like that?” he asks in what he hopes is a casual and uncritical voice.

Bucky pushes his hair back again and looks back down. For the first time since they met, Bucky looks uncomfortable. “I’m not really supposed to talk about it.”

“Oh, that’s alright. My ma says that I’m nosey,” Steve says.

“My ma says that too. About me. Maybe that’s why we get along so good.” Bucky looks back at him smiling. Parents are a boring subject, so they don’t talk about them much but Steve knows that Bucky’s ma is dead and he’s never heard Bucky call his step-mother anything but Millie.

“Maybe Millie has a point. You did follow me down an alleyway to find out if I’d be your friend,” Steve jokes.

Bucky wrinkles his nose and rolls his eyes. “It worked didn’t it?” Then he turns and looks at Steve head-on. Bucky’s gaze can be intense. Steve sometimes feels like there’s no place for him to hide when Bucky looks at him like this.

“Uh, Bucky? You’re doing it again,” Steve says. Bucky’s attention snaps back to a lower intensity. Then he nods to himself, like he has come to some decision.

“We’re best friends, Steve,” Bucky says like a revelation. “I can trust you.”

Steve takes a moment to look at Bucky and consider this. Steve’s never had a best friend before. And thinking of the number of kids lining up to be his friend, there’s not much competition to be his best friend. But he and Bucky do everything together, except for when they were in different classes during school. They play until Bucky has to leave. Bucky fights with him. They haven’t met each other's parents yet, but who cares. They sneak into movies and ball games together. Yeah, Bucky Barnes is his best friend.

“Uh, Steve? Now _you’re_ doing it ,” Bucky laughs, then grabs his hand and pulls him from the stoop. As they make their way down the street Bucky talks, “Millie is _not_ my ma. My ma’s name is Winnie.”

“I thought your ma was, uh you know, dead,” Steve says.

“Well, that’s right. But it’s still her name,” Bucky says amused. “I mean, you don’t stop having a name because you’re dead.”

Steve supposes that’s right. “My ma sometimes talks to my pa too, when she doesn’t think that I can hear her. But you talk about your ma like she’s here.”

They continue down the block in silence. Steve worries that he’s upset Bucky but when he looks over, Bucky doesn’t look bothered, only determined. They get another block down the street and Bucky stears them towards an empty alleyway. Steve follows Bucky until they’re about halfway down the alley. Bucky stops and looks up at the buildings they’re between. Steve looks up and around too, feeling like they’re doing something wrong.

“Coast is clear. Good,” Bucky says to himself and looks over to where the building meets the ground, not sparing a glance his way. “You got anything today?” he asks into the empty space. Steve moves up a step, looks at where Bucky is staring, and sees...nothing.

“Nah, he’s ok. This is my best friend Steve.” Bucky continues on like nothing out of the ordinary is happening. And Steve, he’s starting to feel a mixture of emotions. Anxiousness, worry, and frustration war within him. Is Bucky...making fun of him? Is he pulling a prank on Steve? Like Steve’s not the butt of jokes around school as it is and Bucky knows that.

Bucky stops and turns abruptly, facing Steve. Two years younger and they’re already eye to eye. Steve’s chest puffs up in anger.

“I wouldn’t make fun of you, Steve. Not like this. I promise you’re not the butt of any joke.” Bucky says seriously.

_“How…?” Did he know that,_ Steve finishes in his mind.

“How do I know that you’re worried I’ll be like the other kids?” Bucky raises his hands and shoulders in a shrug. “I can hear what you’re thinking. I’m not sure _how_ it works but I can hear what people are thinking.”

Steve feels his eyes widen, “All the time?” Oh, please not all the time, oh please not all the time he thinks. Oh, stop thinking, stop thinking, stop thinking. Useless brain.

Bucky laughs, “No, not all the time. I have to be close enough and concentrate. My ma says it's rude to listen in on other people’s private thoughts. Sorry, I did it without your permission.”

Then Bucky’s eyes widen and he abruptly spins on his heals away from Steve again. “Really? Where?” he asks excitedly.

Steve peeks around Bucky one more time to make sure there’s really nothing there, and...no, there’s no one there. His best friend is talking to thin air.

“Stevie, _come on!”_ Bucky grabs his hand again and tugs him further down into the alley. Steve stumbles along with him. Together, they weave between the garbage that’s been thrown down from up above.

“Gross,” he says, wrinkling his nose at the smell of rotting food.

Bucky brings them to halt. “Here?” he asks.

Steve doesn’t respond and instead waits for Bucky’s attention to swing back his way. When he focuses back on Steve, Bucky is bouncing on feet, hardly able to contain his excitement.

“Look under there.” Bucky points to where a small pile of trash sits. Steve looks from the garbage to Bucky back to the garbage then back to Bucky. He cannot _believe_ this kid wants him to dig through garbage. Bucky is about to lose his best friend privileges fast. His mother is going to be so angry if he comes home smelling like rotting food.

“Here. I’ll just…” Bucky trails off as he pushes some of the trash pile over with his shoe. And then something flashes in the fading sunlight. Concerns over rotting garbage disappear as Steve jumps towards Bucky. Bucky shifts over and lets Steve in to move the last few scraps of paper and unbury their treasure.

“Wow!” Steve says as he picks up the quarter. It’s duller than he thought at first, worn out and dirty. But it’s still the best thing he’s ever found. He thinks of all the things his ma could buy with it. Bread, milk, vegetables-

“Candy!” Bucky exclaims. Steve turns and gives him what he’s been told is his look of disappointment. “Ah come on, Stevie. We should at least get one _little_ candy bar to split. Then you can give the rest to your ma.”

He shoots Bucky a half-hearted glare. “You’re pretty used to getting your way, aren’t you?”

“Not really, but I am pretty lucky.” Bucky says.

_“One_ candy bar.” Steve concedes.

“Each,” Bucky says.

“No, Bucky,” Steve says as they start making their way out of the alley.

“Please?”

“We’re sharing,” Steve says firmly.

Five minutes later, they’re walking out of Mr. Kramer’s grocery store with eighteen cents and two candy bars. The grocer had looked at them suspiciously when they’d handed over the quarter, but Bucky had set the man at ease by oohing and ahhing over the selection of produce and how he would definitely have to tell his mother. _She’ll be just thrilled,_ Bucky had insisted. By the time they left, the grocer was eating out of his hand.

The jerk.

“Are you gonna eat any of your candy?” Bucky asks, mouth full of Abba-Zaba. They turn to head towards Steve’s apartment.

“I’m going to split it with my ma.” Steve grips the bar by the edge of the packaging, trying not to melt the chocolate before he gets home. “These are her favorite. You gonna share any of yours?”

“Not a chance. If I come home with a candy, then the girls will tell Millie and Millie will tell my pa. And then I’ll have to say how we got the money and my pa will be so angry.” Bucky takes another huge bite of his bar.

“Can’t you just say that we found the money?” Steve asks. He’s got no clue what really happened in the alley or how Bucky knew where the money was, but it seems like they could come up with a harmless story. One that doesn’t involve Bucky hearing voices or thoughts or whatever it is he’s hearing.

“Millie and pa won’t believe me. They’ll know how I found the money and then they’ll know that you know. They’d tell my grandma. They’d probably keep me inside for a whole week. It’s _summer._ I can’t stay inside for a whole week in the summer.”

“I’ve had to stay inside for a whole month during the winter almost every year. Sometimes longer. You’d survive a week. But anyway, I don’t even know _how_ you found the money,” Steve presses. “You say that you can hear thoughts. But we were the only people in that alley. And I didn’t know there was a quarter there, so it wasn’t my thoughts you heard.”

“Oh, Opal told me,” Bucky says easily, as if this was obvious. _Oh Opal,_ Steve thinks sarcastically. Why doesn’t he know this already? Opal explains everything. Except it doesn’t. Because Steve has never met an Opal before.

“Who’s Opal? There wasn’t anyone there, Bucky. I looked,” Steve says with a little more heat. His ma says that he needs to learn how to keep control of his temper so that his temper doesn’t control him instead. But sometimes he just gets so frustrated. He forces himself to breathe evenly and relax his hands. Bucky is his friend, he reminds himself. Bucky is not making fun of him. Bucky is his _best friend._

“That’s because _youcantseeher,”_ Bucky says quickly, then crams the last bit of his candy into his mouth. Convenient. Well, too bad for Bucky, Steve is as stubborn as they come and he only needs to make sure to be back inside before his ma gets back from her shift. And she’s working a late shift today. He deliberately slows his pace. He pays little attention to the people walking behind them as they huff in irritation and sidestep around them. He may have been distracted by finding such a prize, but he’s determined as ever to get his answers.

“I didn’t see her cause there wasn’t anyone there to see,” Steve maintains. They take a left at the next corner. Five more blocks and they’ll be at Steve’s place. He’d better work fast. Or walk slower.

Bucky, seeming to understand that his time of reckoning has come, pockets his empty candy wrapper and looks over at Steve as they shuffle along. “Opal’s dead. You didn’t see her because she’s a spirit. She sometimes lets me know if she sees spare change.”

Steve frowns. Bucky is looking at him with that look of complete sincerity that usually makes Steve believe everything he’s saying, but right now Steve’s brain feels like it can’t get a handle on what he’s heard. First it was reading thoughts, and Bucky did seem to know what Steve was thinking, and not only tonight. Steve had always thought it was amazing that Bucky knew when Steve needed a break. He’d thought it was that Bucky was watching him closely for signs of fatigue, but maybe he was eavesdropping in on Steve’s inner thoughts. But ghosts?

“Ghosts?” Steve asks. He’s not sure where to begin. A nice ghost who just happens to tell an eight year old kid and his friend where to find money? Maybe there’s something wrong with Bucky. Maybe he should talk to his ma.

_“Don’t_ tell your ma,” Bucky says with so much force that Steve takes a step away. “I mean, please don’t tell your ma,” he says more calmly, “sorry,” he adds.

“I thought you aren’t supposed to read people’s thoughts without permission,” Steve says.

Bucky looks down at the ground and sighs deeply. “I’m not. Not to friends and family at least. But ma said if I have to protect myself then it’s...uh...allowable,” Bucky explains and then adds more desperately, “please don’t tell. Grownups don’t understand.”

“Alright Bucky,” he says gently, “I won’t tell my ma.”

Bucky nods his head. “Thanks, Stevie.”

The next block passes in silence. Only two more and they’ll be at Steve’s apartment.

“Spirits,” Bucky says, breaking their silence. Steve looks back over to him, motions with his hands for Bucky to keep going. “Ghosts and spirits are different. Opal is a spirit, not a ghost.”

“Tell me more?” Steve asks. Bucky is his friend, he repeats in his head. Bucky has done nothing but be good to him, even when he could have any old kid at school as a friend. “Wait. Is that how you got all the kids at school to like you? You just told them what they wanted to hear because you could read their minds?”

Bucky tries and fails at hiding his smile. “It was faster? But I wasn’t friends with all of them. Not really. I figured out pretty fast that I didn’t want anything to do with Alvin and his group.”

Steve nods his head in agreement. Alvin and his friends were the worst kind of bullies. They targeted Steve because he was smaller and weaker than them, but they were much worse to some of the other kids in school.

“Back in Indiana, my best friend’s name was Jimmy. We went to kindergarten together and we had kids like Alvin there too,” Bucky said.

“Do you miss him?” Steve asks, feeling a little ember of jealousy ignite in his belly. Calm down, he thinks to himself. Of course Bucky would have had friends back in Indiana.

“Yes, but he moved to California right after we moved here. So it was inev...inevit.”

“Inevitable?” Steve finished for him with a smile.

“Yes, that’s what my ma said anyhow,” Bucky says.

“Tell me more about her?” he asks eagerly. Steve wants to know _everything._ All at once he’s not worried about his friend's claims of seeing spirits or reading minds. He’s _amazed._ He wants to know how it works. Are there spirits _everywhere?_ Is he walking through them all the time? Do they talk to each other? Why are they here? Why are ghosts different? What do they look like? He wants to draw them; is consumed by the thought of drawing them. Do they live in his apartment?

His breath catches. Is his dad here? Has he been watching Steve his entire life?

“Tomorrow,” Bucky interrupts his thoughts gently. “We’re at your apartment now and I have to be home soon or Millie will be cross...more cross than normal.”

Steve looks up and sure enough, they’ve stopped by the staircase that will lead up to his and his mother’s little apartment. “You should meet my ma,” he says softly. His ma will like Bucky. And then he’ll have an excuse to get Bucky upstairs to look for spirits. How will he ever sleep without knowing.

Bucky looks up the stairs, tilts his head to the side and stares. Finally, he looks back over to Steve, “Yes, I think I’ll meet your ma soon.”

Steve feels his eyebrows creep up under his bangs. Such a strange kid, he thinks. “Alright. I’m glad that’s settled. See you tomorrow?”

“See you tomorrow, Steve,” Bucky yells over his shoulder as he starts walking towards his neighborhood. _Such_ a strange kid.

He climbs the stairs and pats at his pockets for his key before remembering he left it inside. He turns back and kicks the spare key out from under the brick by their door. With the door unlocked and the spare key safely back in its spot, he moves into the apartment with more caution than he’s ever taken in his entire life. Somehow knowing that spirits and ghosts exist makes him think that he’ll see them everywhere.

Stop being a baby, he thinks to himself. Gathering his courage, he storms his way further into the apartment, turns on the lamp and spins around to bravely face the...empty room. He breathes out a sigh of relief and takes a seat at the kitchen table. He’s got a couple scraps of paper left that his mother brought home from the hospital and a picture in his head that he has to put to paper. He grabs the cleanest of the sheets and sets to work. Quickly, the alley comes to life. Heaps of garbage, clothesline strung between brick buildings, and a shiny quarter take shape. And there, in the middle of his drawing stand Bucky and Opal, or at least what he thinks of as Opal until he can question Bucky further. For now, she’s a shadowy figure with blurred features. Her feet don’t touch the ground. She floats gently above the scraps where the filth can’t touch her. One hand points to where the quarter waits for them.

A hand lands on his shoulder and he screams as he falls out of his chair. “Ouch.”

“You really can be the most dramatic child, Steven,” his mother says. “Are you alright?”

He pushes himself up and off of the floor. “I’m alright. You’re home...early?” He looks around the apartment. He’s got no clue what time it is.

“Looks like someone got lost in his newest project,” she says with a smile. “Can I take a look? Or is it not suitable for an audience yet?”

“Maybe tomorrow.” Once he gets more info out of Bucky. “Oh! Look what Bucky and I found.” He digs into his pocket for the rest of the change and dumps it onto the table.

His mother’s eyes grow wide as she counts out the money. “You found this? Where?”

“Bucky and I found a quarter in an alley, but we spent a little on candy,” he explains. “Oh! I bought your favorite.”

He points to the candy bar on the counter. She looks at him and then down to the money. “You’re sure you just _found_ it? And I thought that Bucky Barnes is ‘the worst’. Is that who you’ve been running around with?”

Steve thinks back on the last month and all the fun he’s had with Bucky. He thinks about the fights they’ve jumped into together, the games they’ve played, the comics they’ve read...the secrets they’ve shared. He and his ma look at each other, “I was wrong,” he says, “Bucky Barnes is the _best.”_


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special thank you to rainbow_nerds for the help with the Irish translations.

Sarah’s ward is loud tonight. 

Not that it’s ever really quiet, but when she was new to nursing all those years ago, Sarah had imagined that the hospital’s rhythm would mimic the rhythm of the city. The days would be full of people coming and going, loud and boisterous. The nights would be quieter, calmer. A time for her patients to rest and heal. And in a very general way, she was right. Most of their patients arrived in the daylight hours and so did the physicians. Because their hospital was still transitioning to paying physicians for their time, many of them didn’t stay overnight. Which meant that while the nights  _ were  _ quieter, Sarah wasn’t any less busy. 

So, the bay is never really quiet, but tonight it’s been louder than usual, full of pained moans and heartfelt prayers, and some even more heartfelt cursing. She’d done her best to move from patient to patient, easing discomfort where she could and being a solid presence for her patients where no relief was to be found. She held hands while prayers were murmured. She took the insults and anger meant for the universe. Patient after patient, she moved down the line, giving everything she had. 

She’s not surprised that someone was able to sneak onto the ward without her knowing.

It’s six hours into her overnight shift when the pace begins to slow. Even then, it takes a few minutes to make out that the hushed whispers coming from the end of the bay don’t belong there. She makes her way as close to the partition as she dares without being seen, curious to know what is so urgent that this visitor couldn’t wait until morning. 

Slowly, the whispers solidify into words and it’s like being transported back in time. She doesn’t hear Irish much nowadays, can’t recall the last time she spoke it, and she misses it deep down in her chest. She closes her eyes and remembers her mother and grandmother speaking to her, for the last time, while walking her to the ship that would bring her to New York. 

Her path had been set, or so she’d thought. Come to New York, meet her cousin, and work alongside her until she found a husband. 

She found her husband first. On a cold, grey October day it wasn’t her cousin awaiting her arrival. Instead, when she walked down the ramp she was greeted by a man with a shy wave, an even more shy smile and the most beautiful blue eyes. They ran into each other often after that day. Joseph stuck to his shy waves and smiles, so it was up to Sarah to move their relationship along. And move along it did. Within the year they were married in a small ceremony. She made her vows to Joseph, and then he, to her surprise, gave her his vows in Irish. 

“Táim réidh le dul abhaile anois,” (I’m ready to go home now.) she hears Mrs. Kelly whisper weakly from behind the curtain. Mrs. Kelly, Sarah thinks, is what she imagines her mother would have been like if she had lived longer. Her long brown hair has gone mostly to grey, her face is lined, but her eyes still hold a kindness after all her years. 

"An féidir leat é a fheiceáil? Tá machairí glasa agus aillte atá báite san fharraige. Agus tá cailín ann, ag fanacht leat. An féidir leat í a fheiceáil?" The visitor whispers back. (Can you see it? There's green plains and cliffs that sink down into the sea. And there's a girl waiting for you. Do you see her?)

“Johanna. M'iníon. Feicim í,” (Johanna. My daughter. I see her.) she says.

Sarah draws back the cloth partitions quietly. Sitting opposite of her is a boy far too young to be out at this time of night. She knows that he and Mrs. Kelly must know she’s present but they don’t break eye contact. The old woman looks to the boy with a sort of adoration that Sarah remembers from her own childhood with her own grandmother. The boy looks back at her with the same fondness.

Sarah can feel the old woman’s time drawing close. She should pull the boy aside. Try to shelter him from what is about to happen, but it’s coming too quickly. At the very least, he doesn’t look distressed, whether it’s because he knows it’s going to happen as well or because he’s completely unprepared, she doesn’t know. And Mrs. Kelly looks more at peace than she’d been during any of Sarah’s rounds this evening. A peaceful passing is all Sarah wishes for her patients. It’s far more than many of them get. 

“Go raibh maith agat,” (Thank you) she whispers to the boy who smiles back at her. He holds her hand as she relaxes back onto the bed and takes a deep breath. On the next exhale, her last ever, a small wisp of steam escapes her lips. Across the bed, the boy’s eyes seem to track the steam as it drifts and dissipates before turning his attention to her. 

“Hello, Mrs. Rogers,” the boy says politely. 

He’s still holding Mrs. Kelly’s hand gently, unbothered by the death he’s just witnessed. She brings a single finger up to her lips to silence him. He curls his lips inward to show his compliance. From the end of the bed she takes Mrs. Kelly’s chart and makes a notation. She takes the hand closest to her and folds it gently over Mrs. Kelly’s abdomen. The boy watches her intently and then repeats the same with the hand he’s holding. Sarah pulls the sheet up and over Mrs. Kelly’s head, smoothing and straightening it until she’s satisfied. With that sorted, she points to the boy and then crooks her finger in a ‘follow me’ motion. The boy quietly steps out after her. She looks down at his socked feet, adds ‘no shoes’ to her list of questions and recloses the partition. 

She takes a deep breath. One step at a time. First she needs to figure out who this child is and where he came from. She’d be terrified out of her mind if she couldn’t find Steve at this time of night. Shaking off the thought, she guides the boy down past the rows of beds and out of the ward. She waves off Laura’s questioning look as she goes by. She can answer her questions when she gets some answers of her own. Down the hall there’s a private room standing vacant that’ll do nicely. 

The boy stays blessedly quiet as she works on what she’s going to say when they get to the room. She can’t let him think that this could become a normal occurrence. Or that she approves. But she’s not angry, not really. Concerned, yes. But not angry.

“Sit down,” she says, pointing to the bed as they make their way into the room. Despite looking like he’s about to vibrate out of his socks, he does as he’s told. He swipes his unruly curls out of his eyes as he bounces in his seat. She can’t blame him. She suspects that he’s going to be landing in a heap of trouble. She pulls out a visitor's chair and takes a seat, relishing being off her feet for the moment. “Your name, young man?” 

_ Bucky Barnes, _ he says. But no, that’s not right. His voice is in her ears, in her head, as clear as if he’d opened his mouth. But he didn’t. His eyes widen in surprise and suddenly he’s beaming.

“You  _ do  _ have it too!  _ I knew it! _ ” he practically yells.

And oh,  _ oh _ . He  _ shines _ .

_ Hush now _ , she responds. He slaps both hands over his mouth but continues to fidget in his seat. So the bouncing is out of excitement, not fear like she had speculated. Bucky Barnes. She knows that name well. She hears it out of Steve’s mouth multiple times a day. 

_ Bucky says this and Bucky says that. _

“You’re my Steve’s Bucky,” she states. Really, what are the chances that there’s another Bucky Barnes wandering around this part of town. He nods his head vigorously, shaking his curls back into his face. 

It’s been a  _ long _ time since she’s met someone like her. Most people who have the shining that she does come across have so little of it that they aren’t even aware that it’s there inside them. It has been so long in fact, that she’s forgotten to even look. But now, with this boy in front of her, it’s hard to believe that she missed it. His shine, once you're looking for it, is brilliant.

So this is Steve’s Bucky she thinks to herself. By what means has Steve’s Bucky found himself at her hospital in the middle of the night. Bucky Barnes...Barnes, she repeats in her mind.

“And Barnes...wait, are you George’s son? I could have sworn that you were a James...” she trails off. 

“There’s a lot of James’,” he says, rolling his eyes. “A lot. There were even three of us back in my kindergarten class, but by then I was already Bucky. And one of the other James’ was a Jimmy. So I guess there was really only one James. But I’ve really only ever been a Bucky. Sometimes my pa calls me James. And Millie does too...when I’m in trouble.” 

“Alright then,” she says with a laugh. “I think Bucky suits you just fine. Like you said, there are plenty of James’ in the world.” She looks down to his socked feet. “Your father is working tonight. I believe he’s out on a call at the moment. Were you here to see him?”

“No. I mean yes, he knows I’m here. But I didn’t come to see him,” he says and then adds guiltily, “I made Millie angry again. More angry than she’s ever been at me, and that’s really saying somethin’. Pa said that if I stayed out of the way no one would know I was here.”

“And Millie is your...mother?” she asks and his face undergoes a range of complex emotions and then settles on distaste. No then. “Step-mother?”

“Yes ma’am,” he says politely. 

“And you’re of no relation to Mrs. Kelly?” she asks.

“No ma’am.”

“Then, what made you go to her tonight?” she asks curiously. 

“You see Mrs. Rogers, Josie...that’s Mrs. Kelly, she’s my neighbor and when my pa brought her in today I knew she wasn’t coming home. I wanted to make sure she wasn’t scared,” he says in earnest. She sits with this for a moment. Thinks about her own shining and what she knows of others with the shining.

“So let me see if I have all the facts in order now. You managed to make your step-mother angry enough that your father thought it better to bring you to work with him than leave you at home in her care.”

“I usually can go stay with my grandma. But it was too late to take me there tonight,” Bucky interjects. 

Sarah nods and continues. “And this is, coincidentally, on the very same night that your neighbor was being brought to hospital. And you ‘knew’ she wasn’t coming home.”

“Yes Mrs. Rogers. It is all very coinc...coinci…” he says, faltering on the last word and looking decidedly frustrated about it.

“Coincidental?” she supplies for him, trying not to smile.

“Yes ma’am,” he says.

She sits another moment, staring at this curious child. She’s torn between wanting to know more, and not wanting to overstep. But her own grandmother had told her that a time would come in her life when she would need to step into the role of mentor. 

“My grandmother, she knew that I had the shining from the moment she first held me. Is that what you call it? Shining?” she asks.

Bucky nods his head. Bucky is leaned forward with his elbows resting on his knees as he listens to her with rapt attention.

“Alright. Well, my grandmother also had the shining. I grew up with the sound of her voice in my head. So much so that when I left home,” she stops to compose herself. It’s been so long since she’s thought of home, “when I left Ireland, I was nearly paralyzed from the silence.”

“You were scared,” Bucky says and she nods back at him.

“I was terrified. But, before I left, I knew how to use my gifts. She was there to teach me.”

“Like my grandma Catina!” Bucky says excitedly.

Sarah presses a finger to her lips again.

“Sorry,” he whispers. “What kind of shining do you have?”

“I can sense how to best help those who are injured or ill. Some of it comes from training as well as my intuition but I’m able to use them together to help people. And of course, I can talk to certain other people who shine.”

“Did you have to keep it secret too?”

“Oh yes. It was always to be kept secret,” she says, then asks, “would you tell me about your shine, Bucky?” 

He sits up straight when it’s his turn to speak. “Well, my mind sees things different. I see what I see, but I can see what you see too if I try. But,” he says seriously, “my ma says it’s not polite. So I don’t do it. Often.”

“That’s good advice. People don’t take too kindly to their privacy being violated,” she says.

“They sure don’t,” he says with big eyes. “Also I can talk in people’s heads like you and your grandma. But I’m not supposed to do that either. And I’ve never had anyone other than my grandma in my whole life know that it was me who talked in their brain before or talk back into  _ my  _ brain before you.”

“It’s been a long time for me too. It was quite the surprise.”

“I’m also the best in school at hide and seek. Always have been. But don’t tell Steve. He’ll say we’re cheating and get angry about it.”

“I won’t say a word,” she promises.

“And I can move stuff a little. But I’m definitely not supposed to do  _ that _ . Pa said so. It makes Millie so angry.”

“Is that why she was angry tonight?” Sarah guesses.

“It was an accident,” he says fervently and then his shoulders sag. “But yes. I was playing with Becca and baby Annie, those are my sisters, and I was rocking the chair they were on a little bit but then I accidentally pushed it too hard and they fell. I feel awful. I’d never hurt them on purpose, but Millie hates me now.” 

Oh dear. If it’s one thing that melts Sarah’s heart in an instant, it’s an underdog. Imagine hating this sweet boy. But then again, she knows just how cruel people can be towards her Steve. She could try to make him feel better, but honestly, how do you tell a child that can literally read minds that someone doesn’t hate them. 

“That is quite a lot, Bucky,” she says with a smile. And  _ that _ is quite an understatement. Just those gifts would be more than she’d ever heard of in one child, but none of that accounts for why he’s here tonight. “But I think there’s more.”

“Oh, I’m definitely  _ not  _ supposed to talk about tha-” he lets his sentence hang. His body stills and his eyes track something behind her. When she turns, there’s nothing there. When she turns back to Bucky, he’s got a smile on his face and his arm is outstretched as if in an aborted wave. His eyes shift and settle on a spot to the right of her. She sits calmly, waiting for whatever this is to end. A moment later he nods his head and looks back to her.

“I can sometimes tell if people are sick and going to die. Not accidents, not really anyway. So I knew that Josie wasn’t gonna come back home. She’d always been real nice to me. And she didn’t have any family here,” he says.

“So you stayed with her,” Sarah finishes. And then on a hunch, “was that Mrs. Kelly that you were waving to?”

He nods silently. 

“Thank you for telling me, Bucky. I promise to keep your secret. Will you keep mine as well?” she asks. 

“I promise. My ma says that I can trust you with everything,” he says with a yawn.

“You can,” she answers as the door behind her suddenly bursts open and a frantic looking George Barnes strides swiftly to his son.

“Bucky. What are you doing up here?” he says breathlessly. He pats down Bucky’s hair, looking for anything out of place. Bucky doesn’t complain, just sits there with drowsy eyes and tolerates his father’s inspection. Once satisfied, George turns back to her. “Nurse Rogers...I’m so sorry if Bucky disturbed you, you see-.”

She’s really not interested in forcing the poor man to come up with a story, now that she knows the truth. She can appreciate George’s willingness to lie to protect his child. She’d do the same. “Bucky has been very helpful this evening, Mr. Barnes,” she interrupts. “He was just telling me about your neighbor, Mrs. Kelly. I’m sorry to say that she passed away this evening, but Bucky made sure that she wasn’t alone and it was peaceful.” 

George, straightens from where he’d been folded in over his son. His brow furrows in worry as he looks from her to Bucky and back again. She can’t blame him for being utterly lost. George has most likely always had to keep Bucky’s shining a secret. If Sarah was to venture, this was not a conversation he was ever expecting to have. “I feel very fortunate to have met Bucky tonight. We were discussing how  _ alike  _ we are.”

“Oh…” George says, frowning in his growing confusion. 

“What I’m trying to say is that we have a  _ lot in common _ ,” Sarah stresses, waiting for him to catch on. Lord, she hopes she’s not going to have to just say it outright.

Bucky tugs on his father’s shirt sleeve to get his attention. “Mrs. Rogers shines too, Pa,” he says with a yawn. 

George’s eyes widen in surprise and he turns his attention back on her. “Oh! Yes. I understand, Nurse Rogers.”

“Despite the fortuitous outcome of our evening, I do hope you understand that this is no place for a healthy child to stay the night,” she says. “He could catch anything up here.”

“Yes ma’am. I do. He was  _ supposed _ to stay in the ambulance bay,” George says, looking down at his son. Bucky, who had been losing his battle to stay awake, startles at his father’s words.

“Sorry, Pa,” Bucky says guiltily. 

“Well, that’s no place for him to stay either. Tonight, he’ll stay right here.” With that she moves beside them to the bed and turns down the sheets. “Climb in now, Bucky.”

“But, Nurse Rogers,” George whispers, “this is a private room. It’s for paying clients.”

“Yes well, have you met many people in this neighborhood who can pay for a private room?” she whispers back. “If you’re worried about leaving him up here, you can stay up at the nurse’s station until you get your next call. And after tonight, if this situation should arise again, you  _ will _ bring Bucky to my apartment. I don’t know if you’re aware, but he and my son Steve are the best of friends. He’s welcome to stay with us.” 

“Your Steve is Bucky’s Steve?” he asks in surprise.

“Yes, and your Bucky is my Steve’s Bucky. It’s all been a rather revealing evening,” she says. “Now, do we have an agreement? If Bucky needs a place to stay, he’ll stay with Steve and myself, if I’m not working.”

“Yes ma’am,” George whispers. “Thank you. Do as Nurse Rogers tells you, Bucky. Climb in.” 

Bucky, quickly losing his battle to stay awake, climbs between the sheets and lays back onto the pillow. He grins up at his father. “This is real comfy, Pa. Too bad they make people pay for it. Oh, and Ma says to listen to Mrs. Rogers.” 

As Bucky drifts off to sleep, George pulls the sheets up and tucks them in, leans down and kisses the curls cascading across his forehead. 

Sarah glances at the clock on the wall. Time to give Laura a break. She looks at George and Bucky one last time before turning and leaving the two of them behind.

* * *

Sarah doesn’t see Bucky or George again by the time she leaves in the morning. The rest of the night proves to be so busy that she and Laura stop alternating rounds. And though she offered George a spot at the nurse’s station, she never caught a glimpse of him. She suspects that he stayed close to his son. 

But the next evening as she finishes her rounds, George is standing waiting at her desk. She motions to him to have a seat in the spare chair. 

“No Bucky tonight?” she asks with a smile. 

“No Bucky tonight,” George answered with a grin of his own. “I just wanted to thank you again. I was so worried when I got back and he was gone.”

“To be fair, he would have made it back to the ambulance bay before you got back if I hadn’t caught him.”

George shakes his head with a laugh. “Should have known he was faking being asleep. He had asked about Josie at least five times before I sent him to bed.”

“He did give me quite the surprise. He was exceedingly sneaky, getting himself in a position where he could be here for Mrs. Kelly. He thinks his step-mother hates him, you know.”

At that, George’s face falls, “She doesn’t hate him. But, he does frighten her. She’d like it to go away or for him to never use it. He pushes back and sometimes, like last evening, he purposely tries to get under her skin. He didn’t intend to hurt his sisters, but…” 

“They got hurt all the same,” Sarah finishes.

“A couple bumps and bruises and a lesson learned, I think.”

“He did seem properly repentant last night if it sets your mind at ease.”

“It actually does, thank you. Again.” He pushes himself out of the chair. “That’s my free time spent. Have a good night, Nurse Rogers.”

“Sarah,” she answers. George lifts an eyebrow in question. “I think we’re past formalities while we’re not working.” 

“Well, have a good night, Sarah.”

* * *

It goes on like that. Sarah and George meet up at the Nurse’s station and talk about work, life and their children.

Steve had, of course, been over the moon once she’d told him about meeting Bucky and had since harassed her every single day for a sleepover. She’d been able to hold him off for the first week, even when he pouted about how lonely he was at night and how lonely  _ Bucky  _ was at night because it was only him with his step-mom and two little sisters who weren’t very good at the games he and Bucky liked playing yet.

“You two have survived this long, you’ll surely survive until the end of the week when I have my day off,” she’d told him sternly. He’d pouted again and left the room like she’d crushed all of his hopes and dreams but there was no way she was leaving those two boys home alone all evening without sitting them down and setting some firm ground rules. Not if she wanted the tenement to stay standing.

Finally though, the day comes. Steve hasn’t left the landing for a moment, fearing that Bucky has maybe forgotten where the Rogers live. At a quarter to seven she hears a commotion coming from outside the door just before the door flies open and the two boys run inside heading directly to Steve’s room. 

“James Buchanan Barnes,” George says from where he follows behind. “Where are your manners?”

“Sorry, Pa!” Bucky yells from Steve’s room. A moment later he’s standing beside his father looking at Sarah, “Dia dhuit, (hello) Mrs. Rogers. Thank you for having me.” 

“Dia dhuit, Bucky. You’re very welcome.”

He looks back up at his father waiting to hear if this was an acceptable amount of manners. George nods and Bucky flies back to Steve’s room. “Have a good night, Pa!”

George shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair. “Are you certain you’re prepared for this?”

“They’ll be fine,” she laughs. “Give them an hour and they’ll have settled down a bit. Come sit and have a cup of tea before you leave.”

“The Irish keeps me on my toes,” she hands a cup over George. “Takes me right back in time to when I was a girl.”

“He speaks Romanian with my mother sometimes. I can’t tell you how much I’ve been surprised by that.”

“Can your mother do it as well? Pick up languages at random?”

“No, not that I’m aware of. You?”

“No. The mystery of the shining. Not one person’s is exactly the same as another’s. Similar, but not the same.”

“It would be a lot easier if it all worked the same for everyone,” he muses over his tea and then sighs, “I do worry about him being overheard. To be frank, he’s not as careful as I’d like him to be. Yesterday it was Spanish at the market. Last week I heard him speaking Mandarin...I think. I’ve not got a discerning ear for languages.” 

“Questions would arise, I suppose. Difficult questions,” she doesn’t want to think about what could happen to Bucky if the wrong person overhears him. Nothing good, that’s for certain.

“I could most likely talk our way out of any problems the first time. Make up some sort of bizarre lie. But what about the next time? There’s so many things that can go wrong.” He runs his hand through his hair over and over. 

“No need for borrowing trouble, George. He’s got your mother and you and now Steve and I looking out for him. Everything’s going to be fine.”

It’s a bit of a bold statement for such a new acquaintanceship, but Sarah feels the truth in it. Later, long after George has left for the night and the boys, who had indeed settled down, had eaten with her at their small kitchen table, she stands quietly in Steve’s doorway and looks in at the scene before her. Steve’s on the edge of his bed, laying on his stomach, left arm dangling over the edge, head turned so his left ear, the one he hears best out, is up, eyes closed, and a soft smile gracing his face. Her heart gives a tight clench at the overwhelming love she feels. 

Bucky lays on his back on the hardwood floor, comfortable only in the way a child can be, reading from a small book. Sarah finds herself laughing along with Steve and Bucky as the story of the headstrong princess and a dragon uninterested in local customs unfolds. It’s a short story. In the end, both the princess and the dragon get a happy ending.

“The dragon turned into an airplane!” Steve laughs, eyes now open and head propped under his arm. 

“You should draw it, Steve. I bet it’d be real good,” Bucky tells him.

“Could you imagine? A dragon...” Steve says with a sigh.

“That’s like what my shine feels like. A dragon. It’s curled up and sleeping most of the time. Sometimes it wakes up and puffs a little smoke. Sometimes it just goes for a walk, but other times it wants to spread its wings and fly.” 

“We should name it! You could call it Dear, like in the story,” Steve suggests. 

“It gets me into trouble a lot. Maybe we should name it Steve, or no, we’ll call it Steven Grant since that’s what your ma yells when you’re in trouble,” counters Bucky.

Everything will be fine, she thinks as she listens to the boys explode with laughter.

* * *

Summer turns to Fall and the boys reluctantly head back to school. Their summer had been filled with exploration and sleepovers and, to Sarah’s eternal gratitude, no serious illnesses. It doesn’t last. With Fall creeping towards winter, Steve manages to catch every illness floating around the neighborhood and misses more school than any other year. At first Sarah frets that Steve will fall even further behind in his studies, but Bucky brings home every assignment and test. He even manages to bring over the books which Sarah had fought for over the years, but was told it was ‘absolutely not allowed’. She can’t even find it within herself to care one bit if Bucky had used any of his shining to persuade Steve’s teachers. Steve deserves this consideration.

She also finds a strange comfort in Bucky’s diagnostic capabilities. Each time, without fail, that Steve stays home from class, Bucky shows up after school to drop off his assignments. When he’s finished telling Steve the gossip of the day and is ready to leave, he finds Sarah and gives her his brightest smile. 

“He’ll be fine,” Bucky says to her. And that’s it. She knows that he can tell when someone is going to die, but she doesn’t know how he knows, and she’s honestly a little frightened to ask. She’s grateful for the reassurance, but doesn’t feel like she can relax fully until she sees him smiling on his way out the door. 

By the end of January, Steve’s manages to kick the worst of his symptoms and heads back to school. February bleeds into March and Bucky’s birthday approaches. Sarah had worried that the boys would start drifting apart. Nine and ten, nearly eleven, can seem like a huge gap, but Bucky sticks to Steve like glue. 

One of Sarah’s favorite things to do during Bucky’s visits, when the boys stay indoors and now that she isn’t waiting for a life or death verdict for her son, is to sit and do the mending while Bucky reads aloud to Steve. It’s become somewhat of a ritual for the boys. Bucky brings over a new book and they work through it chapter by chapter. Steve’s a great reader, but reading for too long strains his eyes and gives him headaches that force him to bed early. Bucky, ever the perceptive child, stops to take breaks to include Steve. 

He’d make a good teacher, she thinks to herself. 

“What would you do, Steve?” Bucky asks. This is, by far, the most frequent question. And Steve, ever opinionated and outspoken, has an answer and justification ready to go at the drop of a hat. 

“What would you do, Bucky?” Steve shoots back.

_ This is new,  _ she thinks, pausing in her sewing.

“Oh, that’s easy. I’d follow you. You know that.”

“Uh-uh, nope. You’ve gotta say. You’ve gotta make up your own mind.” 

It’s quiet for a bit. Steve’s a stubborn child, a trait that she both loves and loathes depending on the situation, and he’ll wait Bucky out until he gets an answer.

“Well…” Bucky starts, “I suppose I would go help the village?”

The room is silent again. Sarah listens intently for Steve’s verdict. She can almost feel Bucky’s nervous anticipation from here. 

“That’s what I would do too,” Steve finally answers.

“Oh good.” Comes Bucky’s relieved response.

“Why are you always so worried about what I’d do anyway?”

“M’not worried.” Bucky says. “Just want to know, that’s all. You always do the right thing. It’s your shine.”

Sarah feels her breath catch.  _ Shine?  _

“Shine?” Steve asks. “My shine?”

“Well yeah,” Bucky says nonchalantly. “You’ve got a shine too.”

“Are you sure?” Steve asks skeptically. “I never seen a spirit before. Or do any of the things you can do.”

“I can’t do everything my grandma Catina can do. And I can’t do what your Ma can do. And I can’t do what you can do neither.” 

“But I can’t do  _ anything _ .” 

“Yes you can. You know what the right thing to do is. You always know the right thing to do. That’s not easy for everyone.”

Steve makes a sound that seems to relay that he is unconvinced. “So my great gift to the world is getting into fights. Great.”

“No.”

“But you  _ just  _ said…”

“Your gift is knowing what the right thing is. The shining doesn’t make people good. You could choose not to fight. Your gift is knowing who to stick up for and that you should help. But you do the sticking up for and helping people because you’re a good person.”

“Ok,” Steve says, then, “Ma!”

It startles the breath she’d been holding straight out of her. Stowing the sewing into her basket, she crosses the small space to Steve’s doorway where he’s sitting, cross-legged on his bed, and with the most indignant look on his face. 

“I didn’t think it was the shining, but I suppose I’ve always seen it. I’ve always called you my sunshine,” she says.

Steve frowns at her, clearly unimpressed with her explanation.

“It  _ does _ look like the sunshine, Steve,” Bucky backs her up. That’s sweet. “It doesn’t look like my grandma’s shine or your ma’s shine either. It’s special.”

“Ok, then if my shine is so special and you’ll follow what I do, then why do you give me such a hard time sometimes,” he frowns at Bucky.

Bucky grins back at Steve. “Just because you know what you should do, and you choose to do it, doesn’t mean that you should do it in the most reckless way possible.” 

“You jerk!” Steve pulls the pillow out from beside him and swings it down at Bucky. Bucky gets one arm up and then disappears in a cloud of feathers. 

* * *

The months roll on. Bucky turns ten and invites Steve  _ and  _ Sarah to his home for dinner and cake. It’s the first time Sarah’s been to the Barnes’ home and the first time she meets the rest of Bucky and George’s family. Bucky’s sisters, Becca and Annie are cute as can be and despite Steve’s insistence that Bucky’s a poor pitiful boy for being strapped with two sisters, it’s Bucky who actually dotes on the two girls. Millie is polite, but not what Sarah would consider friendly. Sarah does hit it off with George’s mother, Catina, who thinks Steve is just a darling. Sarah agrees.

Brooklyn is treated to an early spring and then soon after, the boys are released from school for the summer. It’s a hot June evening and Sarah is back on nights when George strolls up to the nurse’s station, rubbing his hand nervously through his hair. 

“Sarah,” he says by way of greeting. 

“George,” she says back, “you look nervous.”

George drops his hand down to his side and then drops his body down into the chair. “I know you said that you don’t mind, but I dropped Bucky off at your place tonight. I hope that’s still alright. My mother is a little under the weather today and Bucky’s a bit upset so I thought maybe being with Steve would calm him down but I’m really sorry that -”

“George,” she interrupts his ramble, “it’s fine. I offered. What happened?”

George takes a cursory look around the bay before beginning the story. Bucky had been out watching Becca and Annie while they were playing with some of the other kids on the block. One of the little brothers of the girls’ friend came out to play. Bucky had taken one look at him and grabbed the boys and dragged him back to his mother.

“He told her that her son is sick and she needed to call the doctor immediately. The boy’s mother, well she was not happy.”

“What happened?”

“Bucky kept insisting. The mother came to our place and told Millie to get him under control.”

“Millie was upset?”

“Millie was embarrassed and angry. I woke up to Bucky screaming at her, which is really unlike him.” George falls silent and Sarah leaves him to gather his thoughts. “You know that he can tell if someone is going to pass?”

She nods. Bucky had said so when they’d first met. It’s why Bucky would give her his reassurance whenever Steve was sick.

“He can see when people get an illness or an injury that’ll kill them, or might kill them. He can see when it begins though and he can tell how far it’s progressed and how close to death they are. He said that the boy was dying, dying now, and that we needed to call a doctor.”

“What did you do?”

“I went back over to the boy’s place and told his mother that I was sorry if Bucky had frightened her. Told her that I had some medical experience, nothing like a doctor or a nurse, but that I could take a look at her boy.”

“Did she let you?”

“She did. I took a look at Freddie. He had a slight fever, not too high. But I know Bucky. And I know he wouldn’t lie or embellish something like this. So I told her that I thought that she should call on the doctor to get the fever looked at.”

“She said no?”

“She said that she would wait the night and if the fever was still there today, she’d call on the doctor. I went home. Bucky went to bed early, also unlike him, but I knew he was upset. Who wouldn’t be upset?”

“What happened this morning?” 

“His fever had spiked overnight. Meningitis. He passed this morning.”

“Oh no.” That poor mother, she thinks. “Oh George. And Bucky?”

“Angry as a sack of hornets. Yelled at me. Yelled at Mills. Think he would have gone on down the way and yelled at poor Freddie’s mother if I hadn’t grabbed him up. What a day. Anyhow, I thought some time with Steve would be good for him.”

“Of course. Did you tell him that there wasn’t anything he could have done?”

“I did. You know, I think that particular ability is the one I hate most. I try not to hate any part of his shining, because it’s all him, you know? But that one just seems so cruel to me. Of course he’s going to want to save some little kid. But Christ, he drew so much attention to himself.”

Sarah’s released from her shift early, a stroke of good luck for her considering that she’s been itching to leave since she’d spoken with George. She walks as fast as she’s able, dodging peppy workers on their way on shift and bypassing the ones walking at meandering pace, just heading off shift. She takes the steps two at a time and goes straight to Steve’s room. In the early light of morning, the two boys lay curled up in bed together and Sarah sighs in relief at the sight. Safe and sound. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story that Bucky and Steve are reading is The Last of the Dragons by Edith Nesbit.


	4. Chapter 4

“Bucky,” Steve says from his bed. Bucky rolls his eyes and ignores him and turns the page. The sheets and blankets ruffle as Steve drops back to his pillow with a loud sigh. Bucky hears him kick out his legs, restless in his boredom. Restless Steve is the worst because-- 

“Bucky,” Steve repeats, but Bucky, he does not move. one. muscle. Not one. He stays down on the floor, legs criss-crossed while he reads on. He turns another page as slowly as possible. Steve sighs again. Bucky’s not usually a patient kid, but his grandma thinks that he could be, if he’d only try a little harder. So, he promised her that he’d try his very hardest and--

“ _Buuucckkyy_ ,” Steve whines. 

“Steve! What?” he yells and then groans. So much for patience. He only made it through three pages of ignoring Steve.

“Are you almost finished? I’m so bored.” Bucky believes him and he’s even sympathetic towards Steve for having been trapped indoors for the last two weeks. But, he and Steve made a promise to read the book together and _then_ Steve went on and read ahead. Steve...brought this on himself. Being bored isn’t an excuse for this type of betrayal. 

And look, Bucky _knows_ that there’s not much to do when you’re home sick. He looks around the small room. Like everything else about Steve and Sarah’s place, the room is warm and inviting. Bucky could spend hours walking from wall to wall and looking at Steve’s artwork. It embarrasses Steve and he gives Bucky a hard time because he’s looking at them _again_ but he can’t help it if he’s got his favorites. But, to be fair, he can understand why Steve was bored. 

Even if he’s not going to admit it. 

“Too bad. You should have waited for me. Now you gotta wait until I catch up and hope that _I_ stop.”

“But...Bucky, be nice...I’m sick,” Steve says dramatically. 

“You’re not sick, you’re annoying. Sit with you bad choices Steven.” The truth is, Steve _had_ been sick, again. Real sick, but Bucky hadn’t been worried. Sarah had been getting worried, even if she’s got the shining and should be able to tell that Steve wasn’t going anywhere. But she’s his ma and ma’s get worried about that sort of thing or so his Grandma had told him when he’d gone to talk to her to make sure he wasn’t missing anything important...like signs of Steve dying. 

Signs that Bucky _knows_ he would know, but this is Steve and there’s no way taking any chances. 

City living has afforded Bucky the opportunity, wanted or not, to observe many, many people in all stages of dying. For Bucky, it always starts with their eyes. The surrounding skin becomes discolored. For some it turns inky and bruised while for others it’s a soft ivory. And then it spreads. It spreads like an intricate lattice or like the delicate root system of the flowers Becca and Annie like to pull up. It’s something that Bucky has always been able to see but it wasn’t until he had left Shelbyville with Grandma Catina that he learned the truth of what he was seeing. Or that there was a name for why he could see it. Though to be fair, he didn’t know anything about his shining back in Shelbyville. To this day, it’s only his grandma who really knows what he sees. Even Sarah doesn’t know the details of _how_ he knows. 

_And soon, it will be my secret alone_ , he thinks sadly, picturing the fine network of lines on his grandma’s face. 

He clears his throat and reopens the book to where he’d left off and starts reading. He can practically _feel_ Steve’s gaze on the back of his head. 

“You could come up here and read it? You’ve gotta be close to where I was. I don’t mind listening to it again,” Steve says hopefully.

“Oh sure, but, you’re sick,” Bucky says, smiling down at the pages. A moment passes and then Steve’s pillow connects with the back of his head.

“You’re such a jerk!” Steve laughs.

Bucky grabs the pillow, gives it a couple of pats to try to put some life back into it. He puts it down on the floor beside him, stretches his arms above his head and slowly lowers himself so that he’s laying down parallel to the bed. Steve’s got his head hanging over the side of the bed, his face the perfect picture of mock outrage. 

“Thank you for the pillow, Steve. This is much more comfortable,” he says calmly making sure to plaster a sickly sweet smile on his face. He reopens the book and positions in between so that he can’t see Steve. From the bed comes another flop, a sigh, and a whine.

“Fine! Bucky _please_. You were right. I should have waited for you but I was so bored. And I only got a couple pages before my eyes got too tired anyway,” Steve pleads.

“See, was that so difficult?” he asks. He lets the book drop down to his chest. “Thank you for acknowledging that I was right, punk.”

He picks the book back up and focuses his mind on Steve’s thoughts, searching for his last memory of the story. He picks up the line and looks down at the book, finds that it’s not too far from where he’s at currently. He pushes up off the ground and throws the pillow back at Steve who yells as it smacks him in the face. 

“Ma will kill us if we ruin another pillow,” Steve says.

“She’ll only kill you, but she’ll probably wait until you’re off bedrest. Move over.” 

“Geez thanks, Bucky,” Steve responds sarcastically but moves to the far side of the bed and puts the pillow directly in the middle so they each get a corner. Bucky climbs in beside him and settles in. 

“Ready?” Bucky asks.

“I’m ready,” Steve says with a soft smile. He turns to face Bucky, good ear up, and closes his eyes. Steve likes to imagine the scenes in his mind as Bucky reads out loud. And Bucky doesn’t mind doing the reading. Steve’s eyes get tired fast and Bucky likes having someone to talk with about what he’s reading. So, it works out for them both. And sometimes, if he’s lucky, and there’s a really great scene, Steve will let Bucky take a peak in his mind and see what he’s picturing. 

There were _many_ of these interruptions when they read _The Hobbit_ . The book they’re reading now is good, but really, who’d want to go _five thousand years_ into the future? 

Bucky opens the book back up, finds the right line, and starts reading aloud, “You slept very long…”

* * *

At the end of March, Brooklyn gets hit with a storm that brings the city to a standstill. The snowfall is heavy and wet and makes the roads impassable. Try as they might, the plows are quickly overwhelmed with the record setting deluge. Businesses shutter, families huddle together, and to the delight of kids throughout the city, school is suspended until the roads are clear again. 

Normally, he’d be spending all of this unexpected free time with Steve, but today he needs to go check in on his grandma first. Her health has, unfortunately, continued to decline over the past year so he’s been spending as much time with her as she’ll allow, but she hates being fussed over and usually kicks him out for days at a time. _Go play with Steve,_ or, _I don’t want to see you for at least two days_ , she tells him as she shoos him out the door. He stays gone for a day and then brings Steve over with him for a visit. 

He can play dirty if needed. 

You see, Grandma Catina _adores_ Steve. She calls him a sweetheart and a dear boy and it makes Steve turn an incredible shade of pink. Bucky thinks it’s hilarious because it’s not the kind of embarrassment that hurts Steve’s feeling. It’s the kind of _aww shucks_ embarrassment that his grandma enjoys doling out to her favorite adopted grandson. Bucky would be dragging Steve along with him today, but Steve, who had for once lucked out and not been sick last winter, is forbidden from taking one step outside during the storm. 

So, Bucky makes the journey alone. If the weather was a little better, he’d cut through the alley by Kramer’s Grocery and ask Irving if he’s seen any spare change around. Irving is easy to find. He’s new to the neighborhood, as far as spirits go and he stays close to where Opal used to be, before she had moved on years ago. Bucky still missed her sometimes. Opal had liked him, saying that he reminded her of her kid brother. And other than his ma, she’d been the first spirit that Bucky had talked to on the regular. She had been the first spirit he had introduced Steve to and in Steve’s room there’s even a picture up on the wall of Opal. After Bucky had been invited up to Steve’s apartment, and he had declared every room free of hauntings, Steve had pestered him about every detail Bucky’s eight year old brain could remember. The picture is one of Bucky’s favorites. 

After Opal moved on, it had been Theo, with dark hair even curlier than Bucky’s and the greenest eyes he’d ever seen. Theo had been shy and scared during most of their encounters, often confused and forgetting that he was dead. It made him sad so Bucky was relieved when he moved on. He hopes that Theo is at peace wherever he went in the Beyond. After Theo, but before Irving, it was Celeste, but she was...angry. While Theo’s spirit couldn’t accept the idea of death, Celeste’s spirit seemed keenly aware of the situation and she was enraged. Bucky gave her a wide berth until she was gone. Now it’s Irving and he’d stop by but the snow is steadily falling in wet clumps so he keeps his head down to avoid slipping and hurries on. 

The farther he walks the heavier the snow falls around him until landmarks become harder and harder to identify. When he’s what he thinks is two blocks from his grandma’s he’s hit with a ‘bad feeling’. Out of all the things he can do because of his shining, getting a ‘bad feeling’ is one of the things he dislikes the most. They’re almost never helpful. There’s almost never anything he can do to stop whatever the ‘bad feeling’ is about. Honestly, a _‘good feeling’_ would be a nice change. The bad feeling crawls its way across his skin. He clenches his fists and breathes deep to try to shake away the anxiety that accompanies his ‘bad feeling’. 

He picks up the pace, hoping to see the stoop of his grandma's place when he slams into an imposing figure cloaked in the tumbling snow. The next thing he knows he’s sprawled out on the sidewalk, clothes soaking through, gasping for breath. He throws his arms out to each side to push himself off the ground but before he can get his feet under him again there’s half a face hovering inches from him. 

If he had any breath left in his lungs, he’d scream. He’s never seen a ghost before and even angry spirits like Celeste don’t come close to this. The ghost’s left eye narrows and his left nostril flares as it gives an exaggerated sniff. 

“You smell good,” it snarls. “You smell like food.” 

It swings its head to the left and Bucky is faced with the ruin of what remains of the right side of its face. The right jawbone, decaying molars and all, swings freely, only attached by strings of muscle and tendon that used to make up its cheek. Where its other eye should be is caved in and covered in patches of mold. 

“Do you like it?” it garbles through its destroyed half mouth. It tilts its head lower and shakes with laughter. There are maggots crawling through its skull straight down to where Bucky can see the rotting pieces of dull grey brain. 

The _smell_. He gags and turns his head to the side and tries not to vomit into the snow that continues piling up around him. 

He tries in vain to scoot back but his feet slip and he falls back again. The ghost laughs again. Its rotting hand shoots out and grabs hold of Bucky’s coat and pulls. Bucky feels himself sliding in the snow and finally, _finally_ , he gets his breath back and finds both of his voices.

“No!” he screams out loud and through his shining. Maybe he’s close enough to his grandma for her to hear, oh god he hopes so. He tries to pull back against the ghost’s grip but his feet can’t get any traction. Desperate, he grabs at the hand dragging him. In Bucky’s grip, the rotting flesh tears and slides up along the bones, like pushing up a shirt-sleeve. The ghost swings his head back around and uses its free hand to grab his jaw hard.

“None of _that_ ,” it spits, then releases Bucky’s bruising face. He expects the dragging to resume. Instead he’s surprised when he falls back, completely free. He looks up. The ghost hasn’t moved from in front of him, but he’s no longer paying attention to Bucky. Suddenly the snow muffled silence is broken by the ghost’s piercing scream. It throws its head back in fury and then blinks out of existence. Not five feet in front of where he lays sodden in the snow is Grandma Catina.

“Bucky,” she says and slowly moves to him. She’s far too old and he’s far too big for her to pull him up, but he wishes she could. He wants to take shelter within her arms like he used to when he first moved to Brooklyn and was scared of all the new noises. He’d missed his friends and his sisters and his pa most of all. And she’d be there to hold him and tell him everything would work out. He wants that now. But he looks to where those inky tendrils snake further down her neck and he knows, deep down in his shining, that she can’t make this ok. 

He rolls over in the snow and pushes himself up on shaking legs and she ushers him towards her apartment. He was _so_ close to making it safely inside her apartment. He doesn't know what to say, so he says nothing at all as he trails behind her. 

“Come into the kitchen and take those wet clothes off. I’ll go fetch you a blanket,” she says and slowly moves out of the room. His numb fingers skim uselessly over the buttons of his coat. He looks down at them with frustration. His hands are scraped and skinned, red and irritated from the snow and ice. There’s rotted flesh packed in under his nails from where he’d grabbed the ghost. He winces, trying again to grab at buttons. His second attempt is just as unsuccessful as the first. 

“Let me help you with that,” his grandma says, making her way back into the kitchen. In her arms is the large blanket that happens to be his favorite. He’d spent so much of his childhood wrapped up safe in that blanket. She drapes it over one of the kitchen chairs and then pulls out the other one. “You can have the blanket when you’re out of those clothes. Now sit down before you fall down.”

He slumps into the chair and lets her slowly peel him out of his layers. She unties his boots so he can toe them off. She drops his waterlogged shirt, trousers and socks onto the floor beside him. His skin, pale from the winter months is bumpy with gooseflesh and chilled. He’s tired and wants to bury himself in the warm blanket.

“Not yet. We need to wash your hands and your face. Did it touch you anywhere else?” He shakes his head. He’d forgotten about the bruising grip of the ghost’s hand. Now that he’s been reminded, his jawbone throbs. He shakes his head again.

“Alright then.” She wets a cloth at the kitchen sink and wipes at his sore hands and face. She clicks her tongue as she digs the skin out from under his nails. “You’ll want to scrub those good when you get home.”

He nods. He’ll scrub his entire body raw the very next chance he gets. “I’m going to go sit in my chair and wait for you to come out. Throw those,” she gestures at his underwear, “into the pile and wrap yourself up.” 

He nods again and waits until he can hear her lower herself into her chair with a grateful moan. He strips out of his underwear and _finally_ wraps the blanket around himself. He rubs his face along the soft cotton and walks into the next room and settles onto the couch.

“Feeling better?” she asks. He nods. He is. He’s warm and safe and --

“Is there a reason you haven't said a word out loud?” she asks.

Oh. “Oh. Sorry,” he apologizes quietly and then, “Where did it come from?” And then in her mind, _the ghost_? 

_A turf dispute that turned especially nasty,_ she responds. “If the gossip is to be believed.”

“It was so strong. I didn’t think that they were that strong.” 

“The mean ones and the desperate ones, will hold onto this world with everything they’ve got, they'll do whatever they need to stay here. And you’ve got a lot of shine that can make them real, Bucky.”

“It said I smelled like food.”

“There are things out there, both dead and alive, that would take your shine and it would feed them for years, longer maybe. Ghosts are like that. You’ve been lucky that you’ve only met spirits until now.” 

He thinks about the spirits he’s known. His ma. The crying lady at the farmhouse who’s more a faded dream than a real memory now. Opal. Irving. A handful of others over the years spread all along the spectrum ranging from nearly see-through to almost all there. Some had been upset or bitter, but none had ever been like the ghost tonight. 

“But you made it go away,” he says. Because it wasn’t him. He didn’t do anything except make the ghost angrier.

“I did,” she says.

 _You’re going to teach me how._ He says knowingly. There’s not much time left for them.

 _I am_ . _We don’t have a lot of time left. I wish we did. I need to know that you can take care of yourself. Soon, I won’t be here to answer your calls._

“I wasn’t sure if you’d heard me,” he says. He’d screamed as loud as he could, but he wasn’t sure if there had been enough air in his lungs to travel. 

“Oh child, I think anyone with a lick of shine and every spirit, ghost, and monster on the Eastern Seaboard heard you.”

“I’m sorry,” he says again. “I didn’t know what to do.”

“I know. This is the last thing I can teach you, but it is so, so important.”

He nods his head. _I’m ready._

_I’m going to teach you how to trap them. First thing, you use your shine to lure them to you. Chances are they’re already drawn to you. Remember, you have more power than they do. Once you’ve got them, you spring your trap. What you trap them in, is up to you. I use this…_

In his mind, she shows him her small jewelry box, the one that sits on the dresser in her room. It’s a dark oak with ornate flowers carved into the lid and a delicate silver clasp. He thought it would be bigger.

 _It doesn’t matter the size. Some people have lock boxes or safes. Others have entire rooms or houses dedicated to keeping ghosts locked away. It only matters that_ you _believe and know without a doubt that they can’t get out unless you let them out. What their cages look like is up to you. Think about something that you know inside and out._

Bucky leans back on the sofa and thinks about it for a moment. _Do they all go in the same cage?_

“No. You can have as many as you need,” she says. 

Well then, something he knows inside and out. If he were Steve, he thinks, he’d trap each one in a drawing. He’d have an entire hallway dedicated to them. Drawings can’t come up and off a page. But...he’s not much of an artist. Not like Steve is. Bucky can’t imagine the weight of the pencil in his hand or the feel as it drags across the paper. 

A book though...that’s something he knows inside and out. He’s spent so much time reading with Steve over the last four years. He knows the feel of them. The feel of the covers. Smooth paperbacks, cloth hardcover, leather-bound. But the one that comes to mind is his favorite. The large tome that belongs to his grandma and sits in the chest at the end of her bed. 

“You need to make one just like it in your mind. It’s where you’re going to trap any ghost that tries to feed from you.”

Bucky closes his eyes and pictures the tome he’s held throughout the year. 

“I think I’ve got it,” he says.

 _Show me,_ she says. Her presence, familiar and comforting settles into his mind. He pictures the tome with its thick dark leather. The four corners are stamped with gold. At the center, a medallion of interlocking circles. To secure it, there’s a large golden buckle. The pages are thick and rough, the edges are frayed and uneven. He unbuckles the strap and the leather creaks as he opens it. The book smells old and musty but he loves it. He flips through the pages and inhales. 

_Good, that’ll do. Have it open and ready for them. When you draw them in, they won’t suspect it. Ghosts run on the desire to stay fed and on this side of the Beyond. They don’t have the capacity to do much more than that._

_And then?_ Bucky asks.

_Then you go on about your business. They won’t bother you. Now...help an old woman up and to her bed. All this excitement has tired me out and I’d like to lie down for a bit._

He gets up and pulls the blanket around him securely and tucks in the ends. He’s gentle when he helps her up and out of her chair. He looks into her eyes and smiles. How lucky he’s been to have her in his life. 

_Is it too terribly bad?_ she asks.

 _No. You know it’s not like that._ The curls and coils that adorn the faces of the dying don’t bother him. Not most of the time anyway. He supposes that it would be jarring for someone who hasn’t seen them for as long as they could remember. To him, they’re a natural part of life. But it doesn’t mean that he likes being reminded of how their time is running out.

_I know, sweet boy. Hang up your clothes to dry._

He settles her into her bed, making sure she’s comfortable and drifting off to sleep before he shuffles his way back to the kitchen to pick up his clothes. He draws the clothesline across the small kitchen, ties it off, and sets about wringing out and hanging up his clothes. Back out at the sofa, he sits down, only intending on resting but he finds that he’s suddenly so tired. The adrenaline that had kept him going for the last half hour is deserting him fast. It’s only a bit past midday, but he’s so tired so he stretches out the best he can and falls asleep. 

* * *

George slips through the door of the apartment quietly, as requested. He hangs his coat up on the rack and leaves his wet boots by the door before continuing on to the living room where he sees his son sleeping curled up on the sofa. Bucky’s almost entirely wrapped up in his favorite blanket, except for his feet, which are bare and outside of his cocoon. This is normal for Bucky, especially in the middle of winter. George smiles down at his son. It’s those little behaviours that never change that warms his heart. 

“Don’t wake him,” his mother says quietly from where she leans in the doorway leading into the kitchen. Her chest is heaving as if she had walked across the length of Brooklyn instead of the short walk from her bedroom. She waves off his concern and motions at him to follow her into the kitchen.

“I was surprised to get your message,” he says following her. The apartment never had a phone while he was growing up. Hell, they’d hardly had running water and outhouses when he’d been a child. His mother’s place still isn’t wired for a phone, but the neighbor’s place is. It’s been a relief to know that she wasn’t completely cut off from the world, though she rarely uses it herself. Tonight, he’d received an unexpected call at the hospital from his mother asking him to come over as soon as possible. She told him not to worry. 

He worried.

How could he not? He knows that his mother doesn’t have long. He doesn’t need the shining to figure that out. Her health has been steadily declining over the last year. He’d brought her in to be seen by a doctor, but there wasn’t much to be done. She’s lost weight, her breathing has become more and more labored.

He helps her sit into one of the kitchen chairs. She pats his hand in thanks and lets out a loud breath. He goes to the sink intent to get her a glass of water, hating the feeling of being powerless to help, when he notices the laundry hanging.

“Are those Bucky’s? Why is Bucky,” he sees the underwear drying, “naked?”

“There was a slight incident on Bucky’s walk here,” his mother starts. An _incident_ is putting it mildly. She recounts her part of the story. Sitting in her chair, she waited on Bucky, who was running later than usual. But with the snow, she hadn’t been too concerned. Until a scream so loud and strong that it nearly pushed her out of her chair ripped through her mind. She’d staggered to her feet and as quickly as she could, which is to say, not very fast, made her way out into the storm.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve had to rid myself of a ghost,” she says. “He was a nasty one too.”

“You didn’t know it was around?” he asks. 

“I’m an old woman. It’s difficult enough to do the little things any more,” she says. “I’m grateful that I was able to do this much.”

“Did you show him?” he asks. “Did you show him what to do?”

“He knows what to do. I can’t do much more than that. I wish I could.”

“That explains why he’s sleeping.” He looks back through the doorway. He can only make out one pale foot.

“George,” she says, bringing his attention back to her. “Help me back to bed. It’s good that you came tonight on any account.”

He helps her to her feet and she leans heavily on him but it’s an easy weight for him to take. She, after all, has taken on so much for him during his lifetime. She gives his arm a light squeeze and looks up at him. “That’s what parents are here for. We are here to bear whatever weight we can for our children when they need us. You know this.”

He does know this. There’s nothing that he wouldn’t do for his children. They make their way slowly to her room and he helps her into her bed. He sits down on the edge of the bed at her hip when it hits him. This is the last time he’ll be in his childhood home while his mother is still alive. On her dresser are the rag dolls she’d sewn for Becca and Annie. There are a few books. Her jewelry box. A picture of her mother and father in Romania, whom George had never met. A picture of her with his father on the day they married. A small drawing capturing his mother and Bucky laughing on a bright summer afternoon rendered by none other than Steven Grant Rogers. 

She’s made him sign it. Said he’d be famous someday.

How many days had he run through these halls. How many times had she told him to not slam the door. This apartment holds so many of his memories. How many times had Winnie walked these halls, running her fingers across the cracked wallpaper. 

“I fear we’re out of time,” his mother says.

From the living room comes a gasps, a thud, and the sound of feet pounding down the hall. Bucky, flushed with sleep, eyes wide and hair wild, stumbles into the room. 

“Oh good, at least you remembered to bring the blanket,” his mother says to him. Bucky pulls it snuggly around himself with one hand and takes her hand with his other.

“Was it because of the ghost? Because of me?” he asks with a shaky voice. 

“It is not. And even if it was, it is a price I would pay a hundred times over to keep you safe,” she says.

“Do you,” Bucky pauses looking all at once uncertain, but then makes the decision to finish, “want me to help you?”

It’s like holding their hand, but in their mind, Bucky had explained to him. He can show them things in their minds that put them at ease.

“I’m not frightened, my dear. And I have the two of you right here.”

“And you’ll have Ma when you cross over,” Bucky says.

“That’s true. It’ll be nice to see Winnie again,” she whispers sleepily. Her gaze begins to drift. 

“Ma,” he says. “I love you.”

Her eyes clear and lock on his for one last time. _Remember this_ , he tells himself. 

“I love you too, băiețelul meu.” Her eyes close. Her breathing stutters even as her body desperately tries to keep on. One more inhale and then one last exhale and her body finally comes to a rest. 

* * *

The snow has started to melt by the time Bucky leaves his grandma’s apartment the next day. Despite his unplanned afternoon nap, the events of the rest of the evening sapped the remainder of his energy. After she’d passed on, his pa had sat with her for hours. Bucky had tip-toed out of the room and redressed in his now, mostly dry, clothes before going next door to use the neighbor’s phone.

He plastered on his most _I’m so sorry to be a bother sir or ma'am_ smile because he knows these neighbors like that in children. Obedient, polite and quiet children. He told them about his grandma and they told him how very sorry they are. What a great woman she was. 

But, he knew what they’re really thinking. He didn’t even have to do much to get it. It was just right there in front of him, sliding off the front of minds, ripe for the picking. Her apartment can finally be updated. It’s not like she really had any manners. She seldom smiled or invited them over for tea. She didn’t even try to get rid of her accent. He turned to the phone before his face morphed from obedient, polite child to contrary and surly boy. 

The phone sat on a small table in their living room. He contemplated on how to pass his message along while absently flipping through a stack of paper. They don’t have a phone at home either so he needed to rely on someone being willing and able to go out. Technically, he could do it himself, with his shining. But Millie _hates_ anything that reminds her of his ‘unnatural abilities’. So there he was, using a _phone_ instead of his shining and going over his limited choices. 

In the end, he called the hospital and lucky for him, Sarah was on shift. She sent Will, one of the other ambulance drivers out with a message for Millie. He’d hung up the phone and reached out to check on his pa and found that he was still seated in the same spot. He yelled a quick thank you to Mr. and Mrs. ‘ _she could have been more friendly’,_ stuffed the blank papers down his shirt top, Steve will be so excited as long as he doesn't know how he got them, and made his escape.

Bucky takes the shortest route to the Rogers’ house. He doesn’t look out for ghosts, there aren’t any on his path. He doesn’t look for Irving by the market, even though he knows he’s there. He doesn’t knock when he gets to Steve’s, he knows the door is already unlocked for him. It’s like his head is wide open. He’s always kept his shining trapped down into his little bubble, but that bubble is gone and he can see _so much_. He’s too tired to work his way through most of it though. 

Sarah is waiting inside the door and hangs his coat as he gets his boots off. Steve is bouncing behind her, clearing doing his best not to get in the way. In his mind, he sees Steve and Sarah’s conversation from earlier this morning when Sarah arrived home off shift. Sarah telling Steve to calm down, he does not need to dance in front of the doorway, waiting for Bucky to arrive. 

“You’re extremely bright this morning,” she says, clearly talking about his shining because his mood is understandably sour and physically he feels like Steve’s dragged him into a month’s worth of fights all in one night. “Steven. Take Bucky into your room to lay down. Wake me if you need anything.”

“Yes, Ma.” Steve says, grabbing his hand and leading Bucky to his room, like he hasn’t been in there a million times and needs to be chaperoned. But, Steve likes to feel like he has some control and it does feel nice that Steve cares. Bucky has a set of sleep clothes for overnight emergencies, also known as nights when Millie would rather set fire to the apartment than have him in her sights, and they’ve been laid out on the bed.

“Thanks, Stevie,” he says softly. Once he’s changed he slides onto the bed with Steve climbing in beside him. “You can’t be tired.”

Steve ignores him and shimmies down into his blankets so that they’re face to face. “I’m gonna draw in a bit.”

“Ok,” Bucky says and because his brain feels like it’s split wide open and his shine is spilling all over the place, he knows that there’s more. Steve is holding back. Bucky wouldn’t even have to use his shining under normal circumstances to see either. Steve looks like he’s fit to burst from the way he’s holding his body rigid, biting his lips together and huge tearfilled eyes. And yeah, it was his grandma who died, but she and Steve really got on. “You ok, Steve?”

“No!” bursts out of him. And now his tears are rolling down his cheeks. Bucky looks at them, detached. He hasn’t cried. His pa and Millie cried. Becca and Annie cried. But there’s too much in his brain. He doesn’t know where his sorrow went. Maybe it floated out of his head. Maybe his grandma took it with her. “I’m sorry. My ma said I need to be here for you, but I liked her so much. I’m so sorry, Bucky.” 

“Thanks, Stevie. She really loved you.” He yawns and closes his eyes but there’s no relief. A cacophony of foreign thoughts run over his mind like a stream over a rocks in a crick. At first there’s too many to decipher. Some are too loud, some barely whispers. It’s confusing until he lets the softer thoughts drift away to nothing, leaving only the strongest presences behind. He focuses on those thoughts harder until he can see them. It’s like a blank canvas in front of him, slowly being filled in with small specks of light corresponding to a specific thought stream. It takes him a moment, but he finally picks up on the pattern. The stronger thoughts, the specks of light, it’s his shining seeing other shines. The brightest, in the center and closest to him is Steve. Beyond the door is Sarah, and beyond their small tenement, people with such a small sliver of shine that they don’t even know they have it. Further away, miles away, there are brighter shines dotting the canvas of his mind. He opens his mind more. Unravels and smooths the thoughts as if they were nothing more cumbersome than a knotted set of shoelaces. 

_Look at that, doll._

_She’s next, next, next._

_I think I’ll pick up flowers on the way home._

_Doesn’t look like it’s going to rain. I bet it will._

_Gotta get my fix. Prohibition be damned._

He looks at the outer edges of his canvas and imagines those small flickers, those specks of shine going out. Then he moves in and in and in, snuffing the lights out one by one until it’s just Steve and Sarah left. He lets their thoughts drift away but lets their shines stay, like a beacon leading him back home. 

At last, he sleeps.

When he wakes, it’s to the familiar soft drag of graphite on paper. It’s comforting in its familiarity. His mind has quieted back down to its normal nonsense, but with the added joy of feeling like he’s just getting over a massive head cold. He opens his eyes and spies Steve’s drawing. 

“You found the paper,” he says to Steve.

“It’s real nice. Where’d you get it from?”

“It was just lying around. Thought you’d like it.”

“I do. Thank you.”

“Your welcome. Time is it?”

“Almost supper time. Ma said I should get you up anyway. I just wanted to finish this one thing...and...it’s....done!”

He crawls out of bed after Steve. They shuffle into the kitchen where Sarah stands at the stove. 

“Now, let me take a look at you.” Sarah moves and puts an arm around his shoulder and guides him to their small kitchen table and pushes him down into the rickety chair. Steve stays standing across from him, doing his best to stay silent.

Which for Steve, is really really difficult. 

She gently tilts his chin upward and tsks at the bruising. Steve’s eyes narrow in anger and he opens his mouth but Sarah halts him with a raised finger. Steve huffs in anger and then sits angrily in the vacant chair. “I was worried about you. I wasn’t certain what I heard yesterday, but I thought it was you.”

Bucky nods his head. “There was a ghost. It grabbed me. I was trying to yell for my grandma, or anyone I guess.”

“And it hurt you? I didn’t think that they could hurt you,” Steve says angrily. 

“Steve, set the table for supper please,” Sarah says before turning back to Bucky. “You need to be careful. With the ghosts and how much you broadcast your shine. You never know who could be looking for it.”

“Alright, Mrs. Rogers.”

“Promise?”

“I promise I’ll be more careful.” 

* * *

“Stay together, boys!” Sarah calls to Steve and Bucky as they wade through the sea of bodies choking Stone Avenue. A round of _‘yes ma’_ and _‘yes Mrs. Rogers’_ answers her back. The boys weave through the other protesters as a unit, having hold of each other's coats so they don’t become separated. He and Sarah stick close together, following their boys, but minus the coat holding. 

Once the boys find what they consider the ‘right’ spot, or more likely, when the boys can’t push their way any further through the crowd, they stop. Over the loudspeakers they listen to religious and community leaders’ condemnation of the Nazi Party. The crowd listens and cheers as Hitler is denounced. 

It’s a nice night out, George thinks later, as the crowd loosens up and they start walking back. He smiles up at the boys who still hold tight to each other’s coats even though there’s no chance of them being separated. 

“It was a year yesterday, was it not? That your mother passed. How are you doing?” Sarah asks. 

“Most days it’s fine, but there are other days where…” He shrugs. 

Other days he’s consumed by grief. Sometimes it’s startlingly strong, like the loss is fresh. And now that he’s a year out, it’s difficult to believe that so much time has passed. 

They buried his mother four days after she’d passed, after the city had been cleared of the snow. She hadn’t frequented church for many years, but he knew that she had held the customs of her parents and family from Romania close to her heart and he wanted to give her that. He had already known that he couldn’t give her everything she would have received back in her homeland. Her funeral would have been a cause for joy, a celebration. He couldn’t give that to her, but then, he’d never been good with loss.

What he could give her though, were a few of the traditions he remembered her telling him about. The morning of her service, on a mild April day, he and the other attendees waited outside the church until her casketed body arrived. They followed behind as she was carried inside. After visiting a few greenhouses, he was able to find a few flowered wreaths made into crowns. Perfect to adorn her casket. He knew that if she had been back in Romania, there would have been more, but he also knew that she would have appreciated the effort. 

“I should be grateful. I had a lot of time with her. More time than many people get,” he says.

“Grief never works the way we think it should, does it? When my husband was killed, I was devastated. Of course I was. After the initial shock wore off though, I was rarely sad, but god was I angry. Angry for me. Angry for Steve.”

“You’ve raised such a good boy, Sarah. But it’s hard to do it alone.” Their deceased spouses have seldom been a topic of conversation between them. Sarah, he assumes, doesn’t like to talk about her deceased husband much in the way that George doesn’t like to talk about Winnie. “Your husband, he was killed during the war?”

“He was,” she says. “He had the shining as well. Did I ever tell you?”

“No, I don’t believe you have.” 

“He did. Just a touch of it. He was sweet...always knew when I needed cheering up. I was often homesick when I first arrived. Joseph had come over from Ireland a few years before I did and he knew what it was like to miss our home.”

“Could you two do the mind talking?”

Sarah laughs, “No, Joseph couldn’t do that. _I_ could say something in his mind, but we couldn’t talk like that. He _could_ sense when something bad was going to happen before it happened. He knew about his draft letter before it arrived. I thought he would be able to keep himself safe in the war by using his shine. And he did, right up until he didn’t.”

“I’m sorry. Bucky knows his mother a little. Winnie, she stuck around after she passed. I didn’t know until Bucky was six, that’s when we found out about the shining.”

Sarah smiles kindly at him. “Steve told me. After that first night in the hospital.” 

“I don’t think he sees her as much anymore. He says that it’s difficult for them, the spirits, to come back the longer they’ve been dead. They don’t belong here anymore.”

“Is it difficult?”

“He doesn’t talk about her much. It used to be Ma says this or Ma says that. Millie despised it. I think she resented being reminded of Winnie. But now, he doesn’t say.”

“Steve doesn’t ask about his father much anymore. He went through a phase when he was younger, morbid curiosity I suppose, where he wanted to know exactly where he fought and where he died and how.”

“Bucky was the same. I think I was the same about my father too.”

“Did you tell him?”

“A told him a version.” He looks ahead at the boys now balancing on the curb, Steve in front and Bucky following behind him. “Winnie was four months pregnant when she passed. Everything appeared fine, but the pregnancy didn’t take in the uterus, which of course we didn’t know until after.” He did not tell Bucky about the blood and the screaming and pain and fear. 

They round the corner by Sarah and Steve’s tenement in silence in time to catch the boys bounding up the stairs. 

“Come up for a cup of tea. I’m sure they’re up there conspiring about a sleepover.”

He sits and waits in the living room while Sarah puts the kettle on. 

“I tried to keep the information I gave Steve vague as well, but it’s war. It gets documented so I could only keep the details away from him for so long. Especially with how well documented the 107th is.”

“Are you talking about my dad?” Steve yells from his room. A moment later both boys descend upon the living room. “Bucky’s pa was in the 107th too. Right, Mr. Barnes? That’s what Bucky said.”

“You were?” Sarah asks him, startled. 

“I was,” George answers. During the war, the draft had swelled the 107th to well over one thousand soldiers. With two battalions and several companies, it would be absurd to think that he and Joseph Rogers had ever crossed paths. 

Except they had. 

An incredulous laugh escapes his mouth before he can smother it. “I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about,” Sarah assures him. “Are you all right, George? It must be difficult to talk about the war.”

“It’s not that. Long forgotten memories,” he responds gently. “Do you have a photo?”

“Steve, get your dad’s photo from my dresser.” 

Steve bolts from the living room. The three of them remain silent until Steve comes back holding a small framed photo and hands it over to him gently.

JR stares out at him. Younger, with a bulk from laboring instead of the leanness George had known in war, but it’s him. He’s got a bright smile and his arm slung over a low fence. He’s carefree in a way that George was never privy to, not that they knew each other well. 

He looks to Steve, “You have his eyes.” 

“You knew Steve’s dad?” Bucky asks.

He looks into Sarah’s sorrowful eyes, filled with unshed tears.

“I did. We were in different companies and we didn’t see one another for much of our time there.”

Bucky grabs Steve’s hand and pulls him down to the floor near Sarah. 

“When I did meet him, I already knew him by reputation. Everyone thought that he had the best intuition, but I knew differently. One night, I was able to bully him into telling me about his shining. It helped that I told him about my mother first.”

“Then he told you about his shining?” Steve asks.

“He did, and I hung on his every word. My mother told me what she was comfortable with me knowing. But having the opportunity to speak with someone like her...it was precious knowledge that I hoarded.”

“You didn’t know he was Steve’s dad?” Bucky looks at him with a skeptical look.

“There were many, many Joe’s in the 107th. But, I didn’t know that was his name. Everyone just called him JR.” 

“Joseph Rogers,” Steve says with a smile. “What was he like?”

“The first thing that you need to know about Private First Class Joseph Rogers, was that there wasn’t a man who knew him in the 107th that didn’t respect him. Most of us had our lives saved by him, even if we didn’t find out until later. Even men who outranked him sought out his advice. But, more than that...he was a good man. He was kind to those around him and would fiercely defend anyone in need. He didn’t like bullies.”

“Just like you, Stevie.” Bucky says, knocking his shoulder into Steve’s. “Tell us more, Pa.”

* * *

George pulls the ambulance out of it’s bay. It’s inventory day and it could really use a good wash after all the mud puddles Will put it through last week. He parks it out in the sun. He can at least enjoy the day while he goes through the supplies. 

The day, bright, clear, and warm is like a balm, soothing the stresses of home. They’ve tried to keep quiet, but his and Millie’s fights have been coming more and more frequently. They started shortly after his mother had passed away. They’d come to Brooklyn for Bucky to be near his mother, and Millie’s argument is that now that she’s gone, there’s nothing to stop them from moving back to Shelbyville. 

George had argued that they have a life here. Bucky and the girls have friends here. He has a good job here. Then there’s the arguments he doesn’t voice. One, he feels more connected to his mother here. He knows it’s unfair. Millie left her family behind. Her still living family. He understands the hypocrisy. The other is that Shelbyville will always remind him of Winnie in a way that Brooklyn doesn’t. Brooklyn may have been where their story started, but the genesis of their small family had started in Indiana. 

He’s not sure what to do.

Out of the corner of his eye he catches a familiar silhouette. 

* * *

“Good morning George,” Sarah says.

“I hear the boys are coming to take you out for breakfast,” George says with a smile. He’s got a clipboard balanced on a knee and supplies strewn about the carriage of the ambulance. 

“You heard correctly. It’s quite the treat.”

“Nice day for it too.” He squints up into the sun. “Wish I could join you three, but,” he points to the clipboard, “inventory.” 

“Maybe next time. Have a nice day, George.”

“See ya, Sarah. Tell that boy of mine good morning.”

* * *

Sarah gives him one last wave and sets off down the road. He smiles down at his clipboard, wishing that he could join the three of them. Next time, he thinks. The four of them will go out for a nice breakfast after an overnight shift. 

In the distance he hears the sound of a revving engine, remembers how he’d drive the backroads of Shelbyville as fast as he could. Maybe he and Millie could come to a compromise. Maybe she could take a nice long visit with the girls back home.

* * *

There’s a small thicket of trees at the west end of the hospital where Sarah likes to sit on her breaks. Under the shade of the maple, she watches the sidewalks and street packed with rushing commuters begin their day while she waits for the boys.

Automobiles drive up and down the road, weaving around slower moving traffic. From a few blocks up she hears the rev of an engine moving toward her. Within a few moments, the car speeds past her and squeals around the corner. The driver and passengers are all smiles and laughter. 

* * *

He hears the engine rev again, closer. 

“Guys really trying to show off,” George mumbles to himself.

Yes, he thinks, getting back to his thoughts, a visit would be a nice compromise. 

Suddenly he hears the sound of tires wailing against the pavement, so close.

He looks up and -

* * *

Sarah doesn’t get bad feelings like Bucky does, nothing that definitive, but Sarah’s got her own intuition and she’s got a bad feeling after watching the car speed by. 

It doesn’t take long for it to come to fruition. She hears the squeal of the tires again followed by an ear splitting crash and the sound of glass shattering. The shouting and screaming start. She rushes back from where she came from, mentally preparing herself for what she may see. An automobile crashed into a powerline. It’s occupants injured, trapped inside, or perhaps thrown. 

She rounds the corner and stops. It wasn’t a powerline they crashed into. Oh god it wasn’t a powerline, she thinks as she starts running towards the ambulance. 

* * *

Bucky is kicking a rock at Steve when he feels it. A tight ache in his chest that steals his breath and makes his lips, arms, hands, legs and feet tingle. His bad feeling manifesting in panic. Like his body knows something bad is happening, but his brain hasn’t learned it yet. Like the ghost. He holds a hand to chest and forces himself to take deep breaths and keep going.

“Bucky? What’s wrong?” Steve asks from next to him. 

* * *

_Please no, please no,_ Sarah thinks. _Let him be inside the bay._

There are people already climbing around the car and ambulance, trying to find a way inside. The car hit so hard the front end of the car was crushed into the back of the ambulance. The passengers, both women who had moments ago been smiling and laughing, are being treated off to the side. Sickeningly, she realizes that she can see what’s left of the driver, crushed beyond help in the warped metal. 

Her attention swings to the front of the ambulance. Will, pale and tight-lipped, slides out of the front seat of the ambulance. 

“Will,” her voice shakes, “where is George?”

* * *

_Winnie_

George is thirty-four. George is thirty-four when he sees his Winnie again. 

He...he’s not certain what he was doing before. Maybe it was something important. But that’s silly. What could be more important than this?

He walks past the commotion around him and makes his way across the road. 

“Winnie,” he breathes out, “Winnie. You’re here.”

She smiles at him and it’s like time held her exactly the way he remembers her. She’s in her favorite dress. Her dark curls fall down to her shoulders. Her smile turns sad.

“I’ve been here George. It’s you who’s just arrived.” She takes his hand in hers and he can _feel_ her. He can feel the softness of her skin...they way she links their fingers together. She’s real, he thinks, she’s real. How can this be? How can they both be...

* * *

“I don’t know. Something bad,” Bucky tells Steve. 

Every step they move, the feeling intensifies until he can feel tears prickling at his eyes. They’re two blocks from where they’re supposed to meet Sarah when he starts hearing the commotion. 

_Something’swrongsomething’swrongsomething’swrongsomething’swrong_ , repeats uselessly over and over in his mind.

* * *

Will runs a hand over his face and then points to the back of the ambulance.

“We should -” she stops. They should what? 

“We’ll get him out when they cut the automobile out,” Will says. 

She puts out a hand to steady herself. She had _just_ talked to him. 

_Tell that boy of mine good morning,_ he’d said. 

Oh no, she thinks. The boys.

* * *

“Oh,” he gasps. “Oh, Winnie. No. _Bucky_.”

The fog in his brain starts to clear and he turns back to where he was, and sees the wreckage. He’s not alone. There’s a crowd of the other hospital workers making a barrier between the bodies, _his body_ , and onlookers. Onlookers. Bucky is on his way here. He can’t let him see.

He spins around. He can do this. He can do this one last thing. They’d be coming from the Rogers’ place. They were meeting Sarah down the road. He starts moving. He can’t stay long. He can already feel the pull of the Beyond. The pull to go with Winnie and see his mother. But he can do this thing. 

There, half a block up he sees Bucky rushing towards him with Steve desperately trying to keep up. 

Then Bucky looks up and sees him.

* * *

There his father is, less than half a block up. Bucky stops under the maple trees, waiting. 

The tightness in his chest loosens even as the _something’swrongsomething’swrongsomething’swrongsomething’swrong_ , screams even louder. 

And then everything stops. Because his pa is right there in front of him. And right behind his pa, is his ma. And his pa is looking at him with sorrow. 

“No,” Bucky says, as if it’ll make a difference. He needs to go find his pa. He needs to make it to the hospital. It’s a mistake. He’s seeing things wrong. He takes another step but his pa moves in front of him. “No!”

“There’s nothing for you to see there, Bucky,” his pa says.

“Bucky?” Steve says worriedly from behind him.

* * *

She’s running down the road away from the accident. Thank the Lord above for her long legs. She eats up ground until she’s close to the corner and then she sees them under the maple tree she abandoned just a bit before.

* * *

“I don’t believe you. You can’t leave too,” Bucky demands.

“I’m so sorry, băiețelul meu. I’m so sorry,” his pa says. “We love you.” 

His ma steps up next to his pa and wraps her arms around him. He has no memories of the two of them together, but he can see how they fit together. It’s been so long since he’s seen her, and he knows that he’ll never see her again. Not on this side of the Beyond. She’d said that the last time, that it was too difficult for her to make the trip and she was saving her last one. 

“You’ll make us so proud, baby,” she says. 

His chest feels like it’s splitting wide open. This is it. There’ll be no more visits. He knows this deep down. They’ll go on together in the beyond. But to him they’ll be dead. Unreachable.

So he reaches for them one last time with his hand and his mind and closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to watch them disappear, but he feels their absence when they go.

A warm hand gently closes around his outstretched hand. He opens his eyes and looks up into Sarah’s red rimmed eyes.

* * *

She slows down, no longer running, more of a fast walk and takes the last measured and determined steps towards her target.

He’s already on his knees, hand outstretched, tears flowing from his eyes, but looking beyond her. Far beyond her. Steve, looking worried and confused, kneels behind him and rubs soothing circles on his back.

Three more steps and she’s to her boys. She takes Bucky’s hand, wraps both boys in her arms and weeps.

* * *

It’s been twenty days since Bucky has stepped foot into the tenement he used to share with his pa, stepmom, and sisters. By the time he decided to go back, he’s bone tired and weary. He feels mentally exhausted and he’s apprehensive about finally coming home.

He wants to come home. He _doesn’t_ want to see Millie.

It’s been ten days since they’ve seen each other at his pa’s service and hurled insults over his casket. Ten days since Sarah and Steve pulled him back to their place and kept him there. He knew that they were worried, are still worried. Sarah wants him to stay longer. She wants him to take a little more time to get his shine under control. But he wants to sit in his pa’s chair. He wants to be somewhere his pa was. 

So here he is, tiptoeing up the steps of his own home like an intruder. 

He stands in front of the door, hand hovering over the handle. It’s so quiet now. It’s late. Later than he usually comes home, but even so he was expecting to be greeted with the sounds of his sisters playing. But, there’s nothing. No giggles or fights over toys. There’s no soft glow from the lamp in the window. 

He sighs and tries the handle. There’s no give. 

Locked. That’s fair, he hasn’t been home in over a week.

He could knock, but he doesn’t want to disturb the house. That would just kick off another battle with Millie. Fortunately, they also have a hidden key. He raises up on his toes to feel above the door frame and runs his hand back and forth. Maybe it fell? He feels around the darkened doorway but still comes up empty. 

He sits on the porch, the frustration and self pity mounting. All he wants is to go lay down. Maybe tomorrow, after a full night of sleep, he can talk to Millie. But first he’s gotta get up the nerve to knock and wake her up. And hope she lets him in.

He takes a deep breath, knocks, and waits. And waits. He knocks again, louder, but no one comes. He sits on the porch in defeat. Maybe he should go back to Steve’s and come back in the morning. Or, he could use his shining. Millie’s going to be irate with him either way. Maybe, Millie doesn’t have to know. He could get Becca to let him in. He leans back against the front door and closes his eyes. 

It doesn’t take much. Actually, it doesn’t take anything at all. Just like after his grandma died and his shining was sensing everything around him, the same thing happened after his pa died. That ended up being one of the problems before the funeral. He could hear every thought around him, including Millie’s. He’s been able to reign it in a bit, but it was even _bigger_ this time. Last time he felt like he was connected with the entire Brooklyn area. This time, he connected in that same way, but multiplied over and over. He reigned it back in while he was at Steve’s, but it’s effortless to feel his way inside the tenement and take a look. 

His consciousness slides past the locked door at his back and into the living room. 

The living room is his favorite room in their small tenement. He’s never been attached to his bedroom. He shares it with his little sisters and the most privacy he gets comes from the bedsheet barrier his pa hung for him when he turned ten. But the living room, that’s where he liked to spend his time. When he was allowed, he could lose hours listening to the small radio his pa had rehabilitated. When he wasn’t allowed, or if there was nothing but boring programming, he’d lay across the rug and read. Not a ‘Steve’ book, but a book he was reading on his own. In the evenings, before his pa left for work he’d sit in his chair and read the paper. Bucky can imagine the sound of his pa turning the pages and the wall clock that belonged to his ma, ticking softly. It was one of her few possessions that made it from Indiana to Brooklyn. Hanging next to it is a framed picture of their family from when Annie had turned one.

It’s his favorite room and everything is gone. 

He moves into the barren living room and makes a circuit, looking for anything left behind. Any scrap of the life he was part of before. He listens and feels for any sign of Millie or the girls down the hall. There’s nothing. The tenement is _so_ quiet. Maybe quiet isn’t the right word for what he’s hearing, or not hearing. There’s no soft snore coming from down the hall. That’s gone with his pa. But there’s also no ruffle of bedsheets or creak of bed frames. 

It doesn’t sound quiet. It sounds empty, because Millie is gone and so are his sisters. 

He opens his eyes out on the porch. Well, he doesn’t have to worry about waking anyone inside up. It doesn’t take him long to find something, a broken broomhandle he thinks, that he can use to break the front window. It feels good to break something. He barely restrains himself from shattering the entire thing, but he does. He breaks just enough for him to get his hand on the latch and then he lifts the window up.

He spares the living room the quickest of glances before moving to his room. 

Millie left him his bed. His clothes. The few books he has. 

As expected, all traces of the girls have vanished. No more dresses laying about. He’ll never have to evict Betty and Gertie, Annie’s dollies, from his side of the room ever again. He’ll never have to watch them as they play outside. He’ll never have to listen to Becca whining about being left behind when he and Steve play. He hates it. 

There’s only one room left to check. Instinctually, he knows what he’s going to find but it’s like the final blow to his composure.

Everything is gone.

He collapses onto his bed and smacks the back of his head on something hard.

“Ouch,” he whispers, “Damn.”

Under his pillow his hand connects with a small metal box. He knows exactly what it is as soon as he touches it. The small lockbox belonged to his pa. The lock itself had broken long ago, but the latch is still intact. Inside, a letter sits folded on top. He recognizes Becca’s handwriting penned across the front. He unfolds the paper with care. 

_Bucky,_

_I’m sorry we didn’t get to say goodbye. I wish that I had known what mama had planned. If I had, Annie and I would have come to you, but she didn’t tell us. Please don’t be angry with Annie or me. I am writing this letter in haste, hiding away out in the back alley until the very last moment. Mama is moving us back to Indiana. She says there is nothing left for us here now that grandma and pa are dead. I do not want to leave Brooklyn and you and all of my friends._

_Mama packed all of pa’s things but I was able to unpack some of them for you. Annie helped to distract her. You and Steve would have been proud of our plan. I’m sorry I could not get you more._

_Annie and me love you Bucky._

_Becca_

Bucky holds the letter to his chest after he’s finished reading through a second time. He knew it. He knew that they had left. The confirmation is still painful. _Becca, Becca, Becca...._ he thinks holding the letter. _Becca, Becca, Becca._ And because he only has an unsteady hold on his shining, his consciousness rockets out of his body. Below him, the world tilts on its axis and speeds past him at a terrifying pace. Abruptly, he stops and his consciousness drops into the farmhouse of his oldest memories.

“Oh god. That was terrifying. Oh god.” 

He doesn’t have many clear memories of Indiana, but he does remember this room. For the first two years of Becca’s life, he shared this room with her. This is the room his mother used to visit him in and where his father found out about his shining. Now it’s the room that Becca is sharing with Annie. 

“Becca,” he whispers to his sister. “Becca.”

Becca shifts in her bed sleepily.

“Becca, can you hear me? Wake up.” 

Becca sleeps on. Frustration consumes him. He _knows_ that he can talk to people even if they don’t have the shining. So why can’t she hear him? 

“Rebecca?” He freezes as the light flickers on and his stepmother walks into the room and looks over to the bed. He doesn’t so much as breath, fearful of coming under her disappointed gaze once again. He doesn’t want to see whatever it is that she feels for him, that would let her leave him behind. But when her eyes sweep the room she shows no sign of seeing him. 

“I’m not talking to you,” Becca says icily. Guess she’s not sleeping after all.

“Rebecca, please. It’s been an entire week since we left,” Millie says.

“A _week_? You left me a week ago? Pa was barely in the ground!” he yells to no effect.

“I suppose I should be over it then, should I?” Becca yells at her mother.

“Rebecca, do not yell at me.” 

“You left him!” Becca yells louder.

“That’s true. You left me. You horrible woman,” Bucky says.

“We have been over this. I will not have my decision questioned. It’s done.”

“Fine,” Becca says and turns her back on her mother.

“Rebecca. You start your new school tomorrow. I expect you to be on your best behavior.” 

“Why? You gonna leave me somewhere if I embarrass you? Maybe you can put me on a bus and send me to Brooklyn and I can live on the street with Bucky.”

“He’s not living on the street. Don’t be so ridiculous.” 

“How do you know I’m not living on the street?” Bucky asks.

“You don’t know that,” Becca sneers.

“Sarah Rogers would never let Bucky live on the streets,” Millie throws back.

Becca turns and sits up in bed. She looks directly in her mother’s eyes. “Yes, because she’s a good mother.”

Millie looks like she’s been struck. Good. “Goodnight, Rebecca.”

“Ma,” she pierces her mother with her stare. “It’s Becca.”

Without another word, Millie leaves the room, flicking the light off as she goes. 

“Thanks, Becca,” he says even though she can’t hear him, “I love you.”

In the dark, his little sister’s eyes droop low, exhausted from the fight. Before she drifts off to sleep, he hears her say, “love you, Bucky.”

Bucky clenches his eyes shut. Time to go home. 

That night he sleeps curled in his bed, in his empty home and feels more alone than ever. 

* * *

Sarah frowns at the knock on the door. She looks down at where she’s got her arms sunk down into the sink, scrubbing at a dirty pot. 

“Steve? Can you get the door please?” she calls towards his room.

“Yes, Ma!” he calls back. She listens as he opens the door. She doesn’t hear Steve say anything but a moment later the door closes and she goes back to her pot.

“Ma?” Steve says quietly from behind her. 

“Who was at the door?” she asks, not looking up. She huffs out a breath and gives up, “this pot is going to need to soak.”

“It’s Bucky,” Steve says.

“Oh, well he didn’t stay home for very long.” She dries her hands and turns to look towards the living room. “Well, where is he?”

“He’s waiting inside the door.” She looks at her son and oh dear, that’s his angry face. 

“Alright.” Sarah brushes past Steve and heads to the door. 

Bucky is indeed waiting just inside the door like Steve had said. However, he had left out the bulging bed sheet. That shrew. Now she knows why her son is practically vibrating with anger. 

“She kicked you out?” Sarah asks angrily. Bucky shakes his head no. She frowns over at her son who, if possible, looks even angrier.

“She left. She took the girls and left back to Indiana,” Bucky says quietly.

“Fuck her. You can live with us,” Steve says angrily and then stands next to Bucky with his arms crossed.

“Steven Grant. Language.” She looks at these two boys. Her boys, and she hates Millie Barnes. She never hated her before. Disliked her, sure. But she’d always tried to maintain a small amount of respect for the woman. For George. But whatever little respect her friendship with George afforded his wife is gone now. “Of course you’ll live with us. You’ll always have a home with us.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out the new moodboard by maximoffs!

“Go over it one more time,” Steve demands. 

“We’ve been over it a hundred times, Steve,” Bucky complains, collapsing onto the bed. 

“One more time,” Steve says stubbornly.

“You’re terrible,” Bucky says, looking over at Steve, he pops a lip out and tries to pout his way out of it. Steve sits at the other end of the bed, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, a single brow raised.

“Geeze, Steve. Don’t give me the Sarah look.”

The other brow climbs under Steve’s bangs. “Fine. I’m going to lay here and relax and see how far I can see. You know, test my limits.”

“And, you will not…” Steve starts.

“I will not talk to anyone.”

“Or…”

“Go anywhere, with anyone. How would that work anyways, you suppose?” Bucky asks innocently.

“Doesn’t matter, Bucky,” Steve grounds out annoyed.

“Not like I’m really there.”

“Bucky. Focus,” Steve says, then a look of inspiration flashes across his face, “Hold on one second.”

Steve jumps off the bed and runs to the living room. Bucky can hear him rummaging around and then a cheer of triumph. Steve comes back in the room with a pen held high. “Arm out.”

Anything that makes Steve this excited should make Bucky suspicious. But it’s only a pen so he extends his arm out for Steve to take. Bucky’s heart jumps at the contact.  _ Not now, we are definitely not thinking about Steve’s hands now. Steve’s hands touching your arm. Steve’s hand writing with the pen...if found please return to… _

Bucky yanks his arm back, “Hey! You are such a punk, Steven.”

“If you’re going to act like a child, James, then I want to make certain you don’t get lost.” Steve laughs as he caps the pen. “You sure you want to do this?”

“I’m sure.” He nods his head. He is sure. He’s never really pushed it before. He’s been to Indiana that one time but he wants to find out how far he can see. He lays back down on the bed and closes his eyes. He feels Steve shift on the bed next to him, and then everything is still and quiet.

He breathes in. He breathes out. He makes his breaths calm, even, and deliberate. And then he lets that part of him, in his center where his shine is, unfurl. It stretches. He sees his body below him. He sees Steve next to him, laying on his side, just inches away. Steve matches his breath to Bucky’s as he gives Bucky his complete attention. He pushes the shine along. He sees their neighborhood. He pushes and he can see the borough.

Kramer’s Grocery, Central Library, Kings Theatre, Ebbets Field, Coney Island, the Atlantic. His consciousness drifts above an eerily silent Brooklyn. The only sound, his steady breathing, echoes through his head. 

He pushes again but instead of expanding, the vision of Brooklyn blurs and rolls out of sight until the Atlantic spans his entire view. Far below him, the dark waves roll soundlessly. He worries for a moment that this is the limit of where he can go, stranding him over the Atlantic. His worry is for nothing. When pushes next the ocean easily rolls away. He does it again and again until he sees the sun on the horizon and he’s racing to meet it. Land flies past under him at a dizzying speed. _ I have no idea how to stop,  _ he thinks but then realizes that isn’t true. He’s kept his shine on a tight leash for years. He just needs to pull on the leash. He pulls his shine back and the rolling land slows and then finally, stops. 

A mountain range stretches out down below him. It’s breathtakingly beautiful. He’s never seen mountains before and oh how he wishes that he can show Steve. Steve’s fingers would itch for a pencil and a clean sheet of paper if he could see this. He tightens his focus on the highest peak and moves closer. Further down is a town and...something else. On the edge of town are two points of light. One fixed and the other moving toward the mountain. He thinks back to Steve and his promise, but Bucky’s curious. The light on the path isn’t like the shine he sees in others. To him, shining looks like the sparklers they light on Steve’s birthday. This isn’t like that. There’s no bright bursts of light. Instead it’s like a flame that’s gone out and all that’s left is a glowing ember. He tightens his focuses down further, further down the path, far enough away to make a get away if needed.

He’s standing in the shade of a giant pine at the base of the mountain and he’s lost again in the sight before him. Behind him, he can sense that small ember moving towards him. He uses his shine to look behind him. A short ways up the path is a short man in a light coat and glasses. Clutched in his arms is a black briefcase. He doesn’t look like anything to be afraid of, Bucky thinks. And Bucky really wants to know where he’s at. He told Steve that he wouldn’t talk to anyone, but what harm could it do, just to ask a couple friendly questions? And Steve never needs to know. He turns and faces the man on the path. 

“Wow. Mister, what mountain is this?” 

* * *

It could have been a perfect morning.

Arnim steps out of his small flat and, as he does every morning, turns to face Zugspitze. The snow capped peaks are bathing in the sun’s rays and the tall pines at its base are a deep green. He breaths in the crisp morning air, relishes the slight breeze on his face, and attempts to ignore the cacophony of clanging and clattering. It is so close to being a perfect morning, if not for the incessant jackhammering and pounding. The town, his town, is under siege from construction workers from all over the blasted country it seems. And in a final act of insult,  _ his  _ town has been forced to combine with that German  _ sordes.  _

But it is the Führer’s wish, and therefore Johann’s wish, and therefore Arnim’s greatest pleasure to see. Such a pleasure to see his town defiled by this merger.

He strolls down the road, nodding amiably at those he passes.  _ Humans.  _ Mostly good for nothing. Oh, Arnim can appreciate the ones that innovate and propel science forward. After all, he can’t do it all on his own. And of course, he appreciates the ones that produce the little steam-headed children to snack on.

Further down the path, Johann waits, standing tall and intimidating. Even in the shadow of Zugspitze, Johann cuts an imposing figure in his black trench coat and face so chiseled and angular that it could be he and the mountain were both cut from the same stone.

“Good morning, Arnim,” Johann says, his eyes sliding over to look at him. “Forgetting something?”

Arnim frowns. Has he forgotten something? Entirely possible, despite his genius, he is very old. Johann clears his throat and taps at his own bicep where the party’s insignia wraps around the fabric of Johann’s coat. Oh, yes, he thinks. This symbol is important now.

“Forgive an old man, Johann,” he says, pulling his own armband out of his pocket and securing it around his arm. “Symbols do come and go.”

“This is more than a symbol, Arnim. This is our future. With the Führer’s support we will have unlimited resources.”

Unlimited resources to shape the world into the paradise Johann envisions. Total order and power and, with luck, an unending supply of steam. Arnim has survived over a millennium watching humans fight for order and power. It’s never bothered him to not be part of it. For years he and the others in their family have sustained themselves by working in anonymity. But the younger generation of turned are different. They don’t want to simply wander to where their food supply is. Why should they, they ask. Humans don’t travel from country to country to scavenge for their food. No, they farm. They harvest. They have  _ supply chains _ .

Johann has a vision. And it involves both riding the Nazi party’s coatails into power and coopting that power to advance their own agenda. The Führer wants a supersoldier. The Invictus, they want to stop chasing their food.  _ Lazy,  _ Arnim thinks. But, the world changes, he supposes. And if Erskine’s research on the serum can lead them to a source that will sustain them like steam, then perhaps he can get on board with change as well.

“I fancy a pastry this morning. How about you, old man?” Johann teases. “My treat.”

“That would be lovely, thank you.” He says. “I’m going to continue on. My  _ old  _ legs don’t carry me as quickly as you.”

“Go on, go on,” Johann says, waving him off with a laugh.

He sets off down the road once again, and at a decent pace. He took steam not all that long ago, so he’s not as slow as he may have let on, though his legs are shorter than Johann’s. Nearing the edge of the town the shops and commotion become more and more sparse. The cobblestone road is replaced with dirt. He’s making good time indeed. He’ll be able to relax for a spell after all. But, perhaps not. Because up ahead, in the shade of an old pine stands a lone figure in...pajamas? Arnim looks around suspiciously, but the boy seems utterly alone. A pajama clad teenage boy, alone in shadow of the Reich’s secret science division. As astounding as all that is, and it is astounding, that isn’t the biggest shock.

This boy is overflowing with steam. 

“Wow. Mister, what mountain is this?” the boy turns and asks him. No fear. Probably thinks that he’s safe wherever he’s at. Tucked away in his bed. Just out for a little stroll. Fortunately for the boy, Arnim’s talents lie in pushing. If the boy was here in body, Arnim could get him to do anything just by commanding it. Johann though, his talents lie in locating. He could find the boy, figure out where this little steam-head is. Arnim just needs to keep him here long enough.

“This is Zugspitze. It is the highest peak of the Alps in Germany.”

“Germany,” the boy whispers. “Wow.”

“Specifically, you are just outside what was once the great Roman town of Partanum,” he explains. “You should come on holiday to this part of Germany.”

The boy wrinkles his nose. “Holiday? Like Chanaka or Christmas?”

Arnim is stunned into silence.  _ Chanaka?  _ He turns to take a closer look at the boy. Dark hair, a little longer all the way around and certainly not conforming to the style most emulated by the Führer’s youth. “Like a trip you would take with your family.”

The boy laughs, “Vacationing in Germany. That’s a good dream, Mister.”

“Yet here you are. Like a dream,” Arnim says, moving closer. Circling. The boy is beautiful. Arnim would very much enjoy making him cry.

“Arnim. What  _ do _ we have here?” Johann says from behind them. His eyes are wide and intensely focused on the boy. He circles to the opposite side, trapping their prey in between them. The boy has become still, like a startled gazelle waiting for its chance to run.

“We appear to have a sightseer, Johann,” Arnim says. “Not from Germany it would seem, but speaks perfect German.”

Johann stops in front of the boy whose eyes snap up and meet Johann’s cold hard gaze. 

Johann’s face splits into a cruel grin. Arnim isn’t the only one who truly enjoys purifying steam. A shocked gasp explodes from the boy’s when Johann grabs hold of his forearm tightly and pulls. On the boy’s arm is a hastily written half-note...written in English. Pity. They won’t be eating this one anytime soon. 

The boy twists and pulls against Johann but the struggle is cut short when Johann grabs a fistful of hair in his gloved hand. The boy’s eyes widen in shock when they land on Johann’s swastika wrapped bicep. “Ahhh, yes you recognize our symbol. Get used to seeing it. Perhaps when our cause has spread throughout Europe, we will come pay you a visit. You do have strong steam for a boy your age. If you survive, we’ll take a little taste and see if it hasn’t spoilt with time.”

The boy grimaces and squeezes his eye shut tight. And then he’s gone. Johann drops his arms and straightens his coat. He’s silent when he picks the pastry bag off of the ground, thinking.

“Were you able to track him, Johann? Is he British?” he asks, eagerly.

“British, no unfortunately. If he were that close I’d send some of the family out to retrieve him. He is from the United States.”

“The United States! That far! Oh, no,” Arnim says dismayed. “That is unfortunate. I’d bet that he’s quite delectable.”

“I think you’re right. He’ll be a great prize for whoever gets to him first.” Johann digs into the bag and pulls out a strudel and hands it to him. “Do cheer up, Amrin. We may not be able to reach that boy, but the camps will start feeding us plenty well soon enough.”

Ah, yes. A silver lining he supposes. 

“And…” That wicked smile returns to Johann’s face, “I just got word that our VIP has arrived.”

Now,  _ that is exciting.  _ “Well then, let us go see how our good Dr. Erskine has been.” 

* * *

Steve gives Bucky a minute to relax and focus on his task before he lays down beside him and watches. The rise and fall of Bucky’s chest is soothing to Steve’s nerves which are currently buzzing through his body like live wires. It’s not long until he matches the rise and fall of Bucky’s chest and they’re in sync.

“Don’t go too far,” he whispers. 

He had been apprehensive about doing this, but in the end he had to accept that it wasn’t his choice. With the habitual everyday stuff, he knows Bucky listens to him and takes his advice. But in this situation, he’s certain Bucky would have tried on his own. So when Bucky had talked to Steve about wanting to ‘test his limits’, Steve had made a plan. They’d do it while his mother was working the overnight shift and they’d have the place to themselves. 

And then he’d made Bucky  _ swear  _ to be careful. No talking to  _ anyone _ . Sure, his body isn’t going anywhere, but who knows what could happen at the other end.  _ Anything _ could happen, he thinks, remembering the bruises left on Bucky after his first encounter with a ghost. And Bucky may think that it’s hilarious that Steve of all people is being cautious but it’s different when you know you’ve got backup.

“Beeindruckend. Herr, welcher Berg ist das?” Bucky says from next to him.

“Really Buck?” Steve says, propping himself up on an elbow. “You never follow the rules.” 

“Deutschland...beeindruckend.”

_ Deutschland _ ...as in Germany? Oh, Steve’s going to give Bucky a what for when they’re back on the same plane of existence. That’s too far away. Couldn’t he have just gone somewhere closer? Like Jersey or something?

Bucky’s nose wrinkles, “Urlaub? Wie Chanaka oder Weihnachten?”

Then a quick smile, there and gone again, flits across Bucky’s face. “Urlaub in Deutschland. Das ist ein guter Traum, Herr.”

When Bucky’s side of the conversation drops off, Steve is able to relax back onto the pillow. He finds himself doing what he seems to be doing more and more these days. Bucky gazing. Like star gazing, but with the added thrill of possibly getting caught by the object of your focus. A sad little sigh escapes as he gazes at Bucky’s profile. Straight nose, despite all the fights he’s been dragged into over the years. Bucky rarely has to start fights himself. Even if he didn’t have his shining, he’s charismatic enough that people tend to listen to him. Someone sees Bucky’s face and they’re open to discuss and converse. When it’s Steve, they usually just want to punch him. A lot. Bucky may still be as mischievous as he was when they were smaller, but he’s never grown to be a hot-head like Steve.  _ Unless _ someone is messing with Steve,  _ then  _ Bucky has no interest in discussion. Steve likes to think that he’s perfectly capable of looking after himself in those instances, and he always grumbles at Bucky afterward.

_ I had him on the ropes _ , he’d say.

But if Steve’s honest with himself, there’s a thrill of excitement over the thought that Bucky loses his cool when it comes to Steve.

Next to him Bucky gasps. Steve sits up on his knees and leans over Bucky. There’s a deep furrow between his eyebrows, his arms and body jumps and twitches like he’s caught in the midst of a nightmare. The panic he’d been able to tap down on rolls through him again. He doesn’t know what to do. Should he try to shake him out of this? What if that makes it worse, god, what if that strands him wherever he’s at, cut off from his body?

“Bucky?” he says softly, hands hovering inches from Bucky’s chest. Moments away from throwing caution to the wind, Bucky’s body stills. The room is filled with the sound of Bucky’s breaths, quick and harsh like he’s running scared. And then even that abruptly stops.  _ No no no no.  _ Caution be damned. Steve places his hands on Bucky’s chest, feeling for a hint of rise or fall. With every moment that passes, his own breath speeds up.

Then with a deep inhalation of air Bucky’s eyes fly open and he bolts straight up. Both of them sit staring at one another, panting for breath.

“Steve…” He flings his body forward into Steve’s and together they fall to the bed, barely escaping tumbling off the edge. Steve’s arms come up and around his back, holding him tight.

“You broke your promise, you jerk.” He’s aiming for levity, but his voice is still heavy with panic and fear. Bucky’s head, trapped between Steve’s neck and the bed, moves up and down. “Bucky, what happened?”

Bucky unwedges his head and moves back. He extends his left arm. Steve’s note, written in haste to ease his unease, is smudged across Bucky’s skin. And there in the inky smudges are the beginning of five deep purple bruises.

Steve looks up, meeting Bucky’s gaze, “I went too far.” 

* * *

“No Bucky tonight…” Lenny says.

“Nah, he couldn’t make it,” Steve says absently. Lenny laughs. Steve likes Lenny’s laugh,  _ really  _ likes his laugh. It's a soft, breathless thing. When Lenny laughs, it feels like you’ve won the biggest prize at the carnival. Something that everyone else covets and desires, but only certain people get. And he likes getting it. 

“Anyway, back to my point.” Get back on track Rogers, geez.

“As if I could forget,” Lenny says with a smile.

“I’m just saying that it’s a disgrace that we’re not boycotting the games,” Steve says to Lenny, his frustration beginning to break through again. The fight over participation or boycotting had heated up last year. There had been a real push to not join in this summer’s games that had had a real chance. “Instead we’re legitimizing fascism.”

“And I’m just just saying that I agree, Steve. But don’t think that I won’t drag you to Maria and Betty’s place to listen to the games come August.” Lenny gives his shoulder a quick squeeze as they slow their pace. They approach the corner where they usually part ways, Steve to the apartment he shares with his ma and Bucky and Lenny off to his own apartment that he shares with a few other students. 

Some nights, when Bucky can’t go to protests or meetings with him, he’ll take a right instead of a left and go upstairs with Lenny. They’ll talk art and politics and kiss until they’re breathless. Lenny’s even offered to let Steve move in next year when he starts art school. Steve is tempted. So, so tempted. But he won’t. He needs to be around for his ma and Bucky.

“ _ So _ ...no Bucky tonight…” Lenny says again. 

“ _ Nope, _ ” he says with a sly smile. “He’s at a school dance. Probably got a line of dance partners waiting for a turn.” 

Steve hates school dances. Bucky tries to drag him along to every one that comes along, but Steve’s a terrible dancer. Besides, he almost never has anyone to dance with and with Bucky having  _ everyone  _ to dance with it ends up being a real bore of a night. “But…”

“No buts, come over for a while,” Lenny entices quietly and it is so, so enticing. Spending time with Lenny has been a real help in getting over his crush on Bucky. The last couple of years have been tortuous. Watching your good looking best friend grow into a stunning teenager has been a lot to deal with, especially since they share a room. If he could afford to help out at home next year  _ and  _ pay for his own place he would, just to spare him what sixteen and seventeen will do to Bucky’s body. 

“But. My ma is home tonight and she’s usually working,” Steve says. 

“Say no more. Go spend some time with your ma.” That’s one more thing the two of them have in common. Lenny’s relationship with his ma is close like Steve’s. Most weeks, he makes the trip across the river to go to Sunday service with her. Time with ma is sacred. “Maybe next time.”

“Next time,” Steve promises softly. If things were different, if the world were different, he’d kiss Lenny goodnight. If things were different, he’d hold Lenny’s hand and squeeze it with a promise to see him tomorrow. 

“See ya, Steve.” He gives Steve one more smile before he leaves.

What a night. It’s like he’s walking on air when he gets out of meetings. There’s something energizing about listening to the men and women organizing social programs and working to get policies adopted by local politicians. 

For five minutes he walks in peace, thoughts swirling in his head. He goes another block before he hears footsteps on the pavement behind him and moves to the side to let them pass. His thoughts, still back in the meeting and with Lenny are interrupted when he’s shoved hard in the back. He staggers two steps forward, his center of gravity already shifting too far forward when the next shove comes. This time he knows he’s going down. The sharp jut of his elbow scrapes down the bricks of the building from curling his arms up and around his head. It’s fortunate, he thinks as he falls to the sidewalk, that he’s done this enough to instinctively protect his head. 

It’s unfortunate, however, that this leaves his midsection completely open, which his attacker takes full advantage of. The first kick takes his breath, the second has him falling to his side, curling further in on himself.

“Heard you’re a fucking Commie, Rogers.” His attacker, fucking  _ Alvin  _ \- he knows that voice - says from above, kicking again and again. He tries to get up, to  _ move _ , but with every attempt, he’s kicked back down. 

It ends, finally. Alvin leaves as abruptly as he came, footsteps fading in the night. But before he goes, he leans in and whispers, “Change is coming. Heil Hitler.”

Moments pass in silence with only his ragged breaths in his ears. He finally lowers his arms to the dirty sidewalk, wincing. His ribs burn with each breath and his eyes burn with pain, anger, and shame. But mostly pain. It takes him no less than five attempts to even sit up against the building. Just the thought of getting up makes him want to lay back down. But he isn’t gonna scare his ma like that, not come home to her. So using the same wall he was shoved into, he slowly gets to his feet. First onto his knees, then one by one he gets his legs under him. God, he may have saved himself from a concussion, but walking home is still going to be a slow ordeal.

It takes him twice as long to get home and when he does get there, he collapses onto the steps. Maybe, he’ll just drag himself up a step at a time. It shouldn’t take more than an hour to make it up to their landing. He curls in on himself holding his midsection tight with his arms. He closes his eyes to focus on his breaths. Soon...soon he’ll get up. He just wants to rest for a moment.

“Steve?” Bucky’s voice breaks through the pain. How long has he been sitting here? “Steve, what’s wrong with you?”

Steve wets his lips and takes a shallow breath, preparing himself for the pain that will inevitably come with talking. “Fight,” he says softly. 

“What? Weren’t you with Lenny? Where are you hurt?” Bucky demands.

“After Lenny. Ribs...back.” He winces. He finally looks up into Bucky’s worried face. 

“I’ll help you up. Just lean on me.” 

“Sounds better than my plan,” Steve grits out as Bucky helps him up.

“What was that?” Bucky asks him as they move up a step.

“Crawl up one step at a time.” 

“Idiot. You want me to carry you instead?”

“God no, you want to give Ma a heart attack?”

“Like she’s not going to have one when she sees you. Hey, your faces look alright. I mean, as alright as it usually looks.”

“Jerk. They didn’t get in any good hits to my head. My dashing good looks remain intact.”

They finally reach the landing and Bucky leans him against the wall while he fishes out the key from his pocket. When he’s got the door unlocked and open he comes back and pulls Steve close again. God, was it just last year that this would have been thrilling? Bucky holding him, even if he did have to get beat to a pulp to make it happen? Well, maybe it is still  _ a little  _ thrilling. He’s still working on getting over the crush. 

They make it one step through the door before Bucky starts hollering. “Sarah! Steve’s been fighting again!” 

“You are the worst. And I wasn’t fighting, I was jumped.” 

Bucky glares at him. “You said you were in a fight.” 

His ma comes out from the kitchen, wiping her hands with a towel. “What? Oh, Steve.” She walks up to him and places her hands on each cheek and looks into his eyes.

“Where do you want him?” Bucky asks his ma.

“It doesn’t look like there’s blood. Why don’t you go lay him down in your bedroom.”

Bucky steers him to their bedroom and gently lowers him to the bed. His hands go to Steve’s chest and linger there. Then he shakes his head and immediately sets to unbuttoning Steve’s shirt. 

“I can do it, Buck,” Steve says.

“You can sit there and be quiet and let me take your shirt off, geez, Steve you’re obviously in pain,” Bucky says back. “You didn’t even complain about me helping you up the steps. I know it’s gotta be bad.”

He stays quiet. And when Bucky tosses his shirt aside, he frowns at him.

“I know, I know. I’ll pick it up when we’re finished,” Bucky says.

He keeps his arms out in front of him while Bucky pulls his undershirt up and over his head from his back.

“Christ, Steve,” Bucky says breathlessly. 

“Language, Bucky,” his ma says as she comes into the room. She takes a look at his body, “Christ, Steven.”

“Ma!” Steve and Bucky say in unison. 

His ma rolls her eyes at them. “Lay back, Steve.”

She proceeds to poke and prod each tender and bruising part of his body. He clenches and grinds his teeth through the examination while Bucky holds his hand. “There’s not much I can do for these but put some cool compresses on them.”

She leaves the room and Bucky sits down next to him. “Who did this?”

“I’m not sure. They came from behind and I didn’t even get a hit in,” he lies. The very last thing he needs is Bucky going out and getting in a fight when he can’t be there to back him up. 

He startles when he feels the light touch of Bucky’s hand against his side. 

“Sorry,” he says, but keeps his hand over what’s sure to be one of the worst of the bruises. He turns to look at Bucky only to find him with his eyes closed and head bowed. Maybe, he’s looking to see if anything’s busted? Can his shining do that? He didn’t think so, but he’s always suspected that Bucky doesn’t tell him everything that he can do. 

When Bucky’s eyes open, they're cold and hard.

“Buck?” Steve tries to catch his attention but Bucky stands up and looks to the door. His ma comes back in with the cold compresses and Bucky moves away. 

“Bucky? What’s going on?” he asks. 

“I’ll be back.” Bucky leaves the room.

“What happened?” his ma asks. She lays the first compress down on his back, making him hiss from the cold. 

“I’m not sure,” he tells her truthfully. “Besides the obvious.” 

“I’m sure it’ll be fine, dear.” 

Then they hear the front door open and close. 

* * *

Bucky moves down the stairs quietly. It’s not easy, the fire escape moans and creaks, but it’s his best way into the tenement. Not the simplest by any means. The ladder leading up to the landing he needs to get to is so rusted he would have woken everyone on the block if he’d gone that route. But, the ladder two apartments over was already down. All he needed to do was climb up and over and down, without being caught. 

Which he can say with pretty good certainty, that he won’t be. When he’d first met Sarah, all those years ago in the hospital, he’d told her that he was the best at hide and seek. Sarah would probably remember it as a throw away comment. Something that an eight year old with extraordinary abilities would consider their most important skill. 

If she gave it any thought, she’d find it obvious why he was a good seeker. But it was in hiding that a more unique talent lay. He is an excellent hider. When he sits still and calm and concentrates, people's gazes just slide right off of him, like he’s not even there. It’s been years since he’s played hide and seek. The last time he played was with Annie and he remembers how delighted she had been when he couldn’t find her. She’d been under the bed.

Tonight, he and Alvin are playing a game. First, to seek. 

He already knows his target. He wasn’t certain if he’d be able to read Steve’s bruises like he’d been able to read Becca’s letter all those years ago. But under the light brush of his fingertips he was able to see everything that had happened. He’d seen what Alvin had done to Steve. And decided to play a game. 

Too bad for Alvin, he doesn’t know he’s in the game. 

Arriving outside Alvin’s window, Bucky concentrates on who’s inside. Alvin’s mother and father are sleeping down the hall. Alvin’s little brother is sleeping in his own room. Alvin sleeps without locking his window, lucky him.

The window slides up without a sound and he slips into the shadows. Alvin’s room is as big as Steve and Sarah’s rooms combined. Annoying, but better for him he supposes. More room for him to maneuver in. He steps across the room to where Alvin lies sleeping in his bed. Peaceful for the moment. Bucky grins down at him. 

Might as well get started. 

First thing, he can’t have Alvin waking up the house. Bucky jumps onto the bed, straddling Alvin's torso, grabs a fistful of hair, pulls back and punches him in the throat. Alvin’s eyes fly open and his body convulses under Bucky with shock and pain. Bucky aims another punch at Alvin’s temple, enough to stun him before he shifts down the bed a bit, now on Alvin’s legs, and begins landing punches up and down his torso. Alvin gasps wordlessly, tears and snot and drool running down his face. That stupid face that smiled and sneered while he beat Steve. 

Anger surges through him, freshly renewed. He leans forward and punches Alvin in the face, once to the jaw and then once more aimed at his nose, resulting in a satisfying crunch. Bucky breathes heavily. Sweat rolls down his neck and back. He stays leaning over Alvin. 

“Alvin,” he whispers. “Shhhh. Calm down and look at me.”

Alvin does not calm down, but he does look at Bucky. 

“I know what you did tonight. And you’re never going to do it again. Do you know why, you Nazi shit?”

Alvin glares at him, blood coating the lower half of his face like a garish mask. 

“Because if you so much as look at him the wrong way, I’m going to come back here and kill you. And you can scream that it was me, but no one will believe you. In a moment, your mother and your father are going to come in here, and I’m going to stand right there in the corner and watch. And they won’t do anything. Do you know why?”

Alvin glares silently.

“I’m a ghost, Alvin. I can come and go now as I please. I can get you wherever you are.”

Bucky gets off the bed and pulls out the club he brought with him, just to drive the point home. He grips it in his hands and then brings it down hard as he can on Alvin’s leg. There’s a sickening crack and then Alvin, finally able to get his breath back, screams.

The game continues - time to hide. 

He walks over to the corner and stands next to the dresser. He breathes in and out steadily and he becomes very still. He lets a piece of his shine stretch, one that doesn’t get much use, and it shrouds him in secrecy. 

Alvin’s parents burst through the door to find their son, panting, bleeding and screaming on his bed. He’s pointing to where Bucky had walked away, a pretty close approximation to where he’s standing now actually. Good for him.

“He’s there!” he screams in agony. “He did this!”

His parents look over, they look right at him, and then their gaze slides off. They try again, but they can’t get any traction. Look...slide. Look...slide. Finally, they give up trying to see and turn back to their son. The little brother hovers in the doorway, pale and frightened. Bucky slides into his mind easily,  _ this is what happens to Nazis _ , he says. 

“Jethro, go call the hospital,” his mother yells at the boy, but Jethro doesn’t move. He looks around him, trying to figure out where Bucky’s voice came from.

“Jethro!” his mother yells again, finally gaining the boy’s attention. “Call the hospital. Now.”

The boy takes off down the hall and then down the stairs. She joins her husband back at the bed, running her hands over Alvin’s hair. Alvin’s screaming has tapered off to moans and whimpers but he’s still locked onto Bucky’s location. He knows it’s a risky move, but it’s just too much fun to resist. He pulls his shine back...just a bit, just enough for Alvin to see him smile, and then snaps it back into place. 

Bucky does move then, to the satisfying sound of Alvin’s mindless yelling. It’s only a few steps to the door and then he’s down the hallway and out their front door. His hands ache from the beating, but they’ll heal. All that matters is that Alvin won’t touch Steve. That’s  _ all  _ that matters. 

He dips into one or two alleys to avoid being seen, crouching and hiding himself with his shine. He almost gets caught the second time when the woman crowds the man she’s with up against the wall, inches away from him. Her long fur coat is in tatters and her pale skin peaks through a run in her stockings. 

_ Not here. I know a place,  _ comes the man’s gruff voice. 

Bucky doesn’t dare look up, they’re  _ so  _ close. He keeps his trained down on the nearly impeccable state of the man’s wingtips toe to toe with the woman's scuffed and tattered oxfords. At last, they move on up the road and he sighs with relief. 

After that, he’s able to make it home without anyone seeing him and slips in through the door. He’s been gone for hours and it’s late, but the lamp is still on in the living room. Sarah sits, looking down at her knitting. He’s never been afraid of her before. He knows that she loves him. Not a lot of women would take in and love another woman’s child. Sarah, quite honestly, gets nothing from this arrangement. Millie, who hadn’t loved Bucky, had at the very least had his father and sisters to compensate for him being around. Sarah just gets an extra mouth to feed. But she loves him, and he loves her back fiercely. And he’s terrified of disappointing her.

“Hands.” She puts her knitting to the side. It’s not a question. It’s a command and he obeys. He places his hands palms down out in front of her. They don’t look bad, a little tender. “Bucky.”

“It’s handled. Might need you to say I was here all evening, but he’ll never touch Steve again,” he says. 

She looks into his eyes for another long moment. Whatever internal battle was being fought must have calmed because she gets up and takes a step to him. She looks into his eyes, now barely taller than him. Finally she nods her head, ruffles his hair and kisses his forehead. “Make sure to soak your shirt. Goodnight, Bucky.”

He looks down at his shirt. There’s a long smear of blood that he hadn’t noticed. He unbuttons it on the way into his room and tosses it onto Steve’s discarded shirt from earlier. Steve’s on the bed where Bucky had left him. He’s on his stomach with strips of cloth crisscrossing his back. His eyes are closed and there’s no pain filled hitch in his breathing. But he’s not asleep. 

He crosses the room and kneels down by the bed. “How are you feeling?” he asks.

“Hurts,” Steve slurs. “Where’d you go?”

“Needed to clear my head.” More like he needed to clear the anger coursing through him.

“Feel better?”

“Loads. You want me to read to you?”

“Sure. Whatever you’re reading. Not our book. I’ll just fall asleep.”

“Alright.” He grabs a copy of his book and settles down on the floor. “Let’s see what Laura Ingalls has in store for us.”

On his back, he flips through the pages until he finds where he left off. The first book, he’d sat and read to his sisters over the course of a couple months. Then his father had died and he never had the chance to read the second book to them. He continued the series on his own as his little way to stay close with the girls. 

“Hey.” Steve taps on the book. “Are you alright?” 

“Better now. I’m sorry you got hurt. People shouldn't hurt you, Steve. No one gets to hurt you.” He feels his anger rising again. 

“You can’t stop every bad thing that happens.”

“Steve, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I haven’t stopped  _ any  _ bad thing from happening ever.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“If I was there instead of at the dance…” He could have done  _ something _ . 

“He would have found a different time. Bucky, I don’t blame you.”

“I do.”

“Buck,” Steve sighs out.

“Hush now. Pa’s building their little house on the prairie.”

* * *

Two weeks later Steve graduates high school.

He’s still walking a little stiff from the fight, but he’s getting better every day. The day of the ceremony is blistering hot and while Steve holds his diploma with a shy smile, Sarah tries to pretend that she’s not crying. Three graduates down from Steve, Alvin leans heavily on a crutch, his face still swollen and mottled with bruises. 

“Jesus, Bucky,” Sarah whispers to him when she’d seen him. Steve, already up on stage, had taken one look at Alvin and then turned his gaze to Bucky, his thoughts written clearly on his face, _we’ll be talking about this later_.

They’re not the only ones who notice Alvin. They’re surrounded by whispers of shock. 

_ I heard he made the wrong fella angry,  _ the man beside Sarah says.

He looks up at the stage to Alvin and makes eye contact. Alvin stares at him until Bucky smiles and feels satisfaction burn through him when Alvin looks away with wild, scared eyes. 

_ Good _ . 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky is reading Little House on the Prairie by Laura Ingalls Wilder to Steve.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New moodboard alert by maximoffs. I love this one so much.

Everything changes after Steve graduates. 

The two of them scramble to take as many jobs as they can find to make sure Steve’s tuition is paid for come fall. Mr. Kramer, now with shoulders hunched and old, even though he’d _always_ seemed old to Bucky, hires Steve a couple days a week to help at the market. Bucky finds odd jobs all over the city, ones that can take advantage of his youth and strength. They underpay him, but it’s something at least. On the days Steve doesn’t work at the market, he’s out trying to find jobs illustrating or lettering windows. Lenny, and a few other art students, help him by giving him leads on jobs. They work and work and sometimes it feels like they hardly see one another for days at a time. 

One warm August afternoon, almost three years to the day he lost his pa, there’s a letter addressed to him at the house. He recognizes the looping cursive immediately and drops it to the table like his stepmother herself would unfold herself and emerge from the envelope. He leaves it where it is and curls up on his bed with his book for an hour but gives up after reading the same page over and over, curious at what Millie wants from him. Ultimately, he decides that he needs to know. What if there’s something wrong with his sisters? 

The letter itself is short. Millie expresses a hint of remorse for how they parted, but it’s wrapped in a rehashing of the events that vindicates her choices in the end. Bucky gets the overall impression that she was forced to write the letter at gunpoint. There’s no mention of his sisters or any questions that would lead him to believe that she’s at all interested in how he’s doing. The end of the letter is the most puzzling. Millie writes that there’s been a settlement between herself, the hospital, the driver’s estate, the life insurance company, and that she’s wired money in his name to the Western Union office. She doesn’t give an amount. She does not wish him well or say that she misses him. 

There’s a second leaf of paper folded into thirds around a small photograph. He holds it delicately at the edges, irrationally fearful of ruining it. Becca and Annie smile at the camera, sitting on the steps of the farmhouse in Indiana with their arms slung over each other’s shoulders. Annie’s hair is pulled back into tight braids and she’s wearing one of Becca’s most hated hand-me-down dresses. Bucky had picked that particular offending dress up off of their shared room a hundred times. He knows that pattern by heart. 

Becca though...she’d been ten when she left. Now she’s thirteen and has her dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. A light colored button up shirt with a ruffled collar and a pair of trousers have replaced the dresses she was forced to wear in Brooklyn. It’s surely his imagination, but when he looks at her smile, it looks like the smile the two of them would share behind Millie’s back. He doesn’t cry, but it’s a close call.

He folds the letter and slides it into his pocket. The photograph of his sisters gets placed on the little end table in the living room on his way out of the apartment. The Western Union office is a small shop in a building not far from where his old apartment is. He usually does his best to avoid his old street, but today he’s too curious to go the long way around. Three years later and seeing his old home still feels like walking through a dream. 

Finding the Western Union agent is easy once he’s inside. He hands the agent the letter, folded so only the transaction number is showing and not any of the old family drama, and waits. The man behind the counter glances between the number on the page and his own documents, and then quickly walks away. When he returns, it’s with another man in tow. They both ignore him in favor of looking at his paperwork again.

As a child, Bucky had been in everyone’s business, forever sticking his nose, and shine, where it didn’t belong. Listening into people’s private thoughts and conversations was one of his favorite things to do, until he got caught by his Grandma Catina and she scolded him. By the time he’d met Steve and Sarah, he had mostly broken the habit, but with certain exceptions. Life and death situations are considered exceptions, but also...Bucky had made the unilateral decision that ‘because I feel like it’, also counts as an exception. And this definitely counted as a ‘because I feel like it’ moment.

The new man, in his immaculate suit and not a hair out of place, rubs at the back of his neck and frowns. _A lot of money for a kid_ , he thinks.

“I know it seems like a lot of money,” Bucky says, making the man’s attention snap to him for a moment before looking back down.

_He probably wouldn’t even miss a tiny bit of it_ , the man thinks.

“I’ll have to count it, I’m sorry to say,” Bucky says, “because if I come home one nickel short, whoo boy, my uncle will drag me back here and, well, he’s a bit of a drinker, so he’ll most likely cause a scene.”

He watches the man’s face flush and he _finally_ opens the money drawer. “We can count it together.” 

Damn Millie for not giving him the amount. He focuses on the other man, sitting with wide eyes and watching his boss. 

_two hundred...two hundred...two hundred...two hundred_

“Two hundred!” Bucky yells, startling both men. “I mean, yes, that sounds good. The counting together. Of the two hundred dollars.” That’s _so_ much money. He tries to play cool while the bills are stacked in front of him. The stacks grow and he finds himself truly counting along, because when is he _ever_ going to see two hundred dollar again in his lifetime? _Never._ He will never see two hundred dollars again in his life. How much had Millie walked away with, he wonders? Who had convinced her to send him a share of the payout? 

When the last bill hits the counter, they stand and for a moment in silence and stare. The man in the suit clears his throat, “I’ll need you to sign for this. To confirm its receipt.” 

Bucky's signature is shaky but legible and five minutes later he’s fast walking out of the shop like he robbed the place. Once he’s a block down he starts sprinting with one hand over his pocket and he doesn’t stop until he’s flying up the step of the tenement and through the front door. He leans back against the door, out of breath and sweating. 

“Are you being chased?” Sarah asks from the kitchen.

“No?” 

“Are you sure? That didn’t sound terribly convincing.” 

He rips his shoes off quick and grabs the photo of his sisters off the table where he left it before rushing into the kitchen. “No. I mean, yes, I’m sure I’m not being chased. I am so glad that you’re awake.”

“Are you in trouble?” She looks him over with concern. “Wait, have a seat. Let me finish getting my tea before you tell me.” 

Bucky drops hard into the chair, earning a stern stare from Sarah. “Sorry.”

He rocks the chair on its uneven legs gently and waits for Sarah to finish with the kettle. When she sits down, he wordlessly hands the letter and photograph over to her to read as she sips her ‘morning’ tea. She looks at the letter for a good long while. He watches her face, but Pa had said that Sarah has one of the best poker faces out there, something Steve _did not_ get from his mother, and she gives away nothing. He waits and waits and shifts his weight back and forth and back and forth and back and --

“Bucky,” Sarah looks at him, “the chair.”

“Sorry.”

She sets the letter aside and closes her eyes for a brief moment. “I really hate that woman.” Then picks up the photograph. 

“My, look how they’ve grown.”

“They look good right? They look happy, I think,” he says. 

“I think they look happy as well. I’m sure they miss you though.”

“I’ve got a return address. I could try writing to them.” 

“I think you should try. I bet they’d like that a lot. Do you want me to go to the office with you?”

“No, I already went.” The bills are still stuffed into his pocket, but he starts digging them out. Once he’s got them all, he looks up at Sarah, “Close your eyes.”

Sarah looks dubious, but indulges his request. When he’s certain she’s not peeking, he spreads the bills out in front of her on the table and then sits down. “You can open now.”

She smiles and opens her eyes. The smile drops from her face and is replaced by a shock frown. She traces a long finger over the bills and then looks up. “How much?”

“Two hundred.” 

“I’ve never...it’s so much.” She’s looking back down at the table. “She gave you this much?”

“It’s hard to believe. I wonder how much she got.” 

“Well, what do you plan to do with it?” she asks.

“Well, it’s our money, but I think you should decide.” 

“Bucky, it’s your money.”

“You’ve taken care of me for three years. That’s what this money is for. And I want you to decide what’s best for us. Except…”

“Except?”

“It’s been so long since I’ve had a candy bar…” Bucky pleads.

“I think I can work that into the budget,” she says. “Are you certain? We can put it towards college.”

“Sarah, you’re the only one who thinks I’m going to college.”

“When you’re finished showing Steve, make sure to put it away in the tin please.”

She finishes her tea and places the cup by the sink. On her way out she stops and kisses the top of his head. “You’re a good person, Bucky.”

Later, after Sarah had gone out to Kramer’s, no carrot sandwiches for them tonight, he sat on his bed, closed his eyes and looked for Steve.

_Steve is going to be shocked_ , he thinks excitedly. He finds Steve easily and quickly slides down into the apartment’s interior room.

“Steve!” he yells as soon as he’s in the room and then thinks, _oh god_.

* * *

Lenny’s stubble scratches at Steve’s neck with each nip and bite and it drives him mad. He fists the hair at the back of Lenny’s neck, long tight curls, and pulls him closer. 

“God, Len,” he pants out before Lenny’s mouth crashes back into his. Steve pushes his tongue against Lenny’s lips. “Mmmmm. Coffee.”

“You just going to kiss me for leftover coffee, Steve?”

“I didn’t get a cup yet, can you blame a fella?” He smiles against Lenny’s lips.

“Let me see if I can take your mind off of coffee for a bit.” 

Lenny slides down Steve’s body, pulling his briefs over his hips. “Ok,” he says enthusiastically before Lenny wraps his lips around his cock and sucks him down. “Oh.”

Steve loves this, the feel of Lenny’s mouth on him and Lenny is so very, very good at it. He keeps Steve right on the edge of coming and the fucker knows it. Steve’s got one arm practically tearing the pillow behind him and the other in Lenny’s hair and his hips thrusting up as much as Lenny’s grip will allow. 

“Oh, I’m so close. Len -”

“Steve!” Bucky yells from across the room.

Steve’s eyes fly open as his head comes off of the pillow. He meets Bucky’s wide, stunned eyes. His mouth is hanging open. 

_Get out_ , he mouths, grabs hold of the pillow behind his head and throws it at Bucky’s projection as hard as he can. Bucky disappears and the pillow hits the wall with a thunk. 

_Oh god, Bucky saw them...Bucky saw him_ , he thinks. And then because his mind is a traitor it latches onto _Bucky Bucky Bucky Bucky_ right before the intense pleasure of his orgasm hits him and he’s coming.

A moment later Lenny pulls off, “Wow, I had planned on keeping you going for a couple more minutes.”

“Shit,” Steve groans trying to catch his breath. After his heart rate drops back down to normal pace, he looks over at Lenny. “You alright with a quick hand job? I’ve gotta run.”

* * *

He doesn’t go home straight away. He does have some errands to run, some sample work to drop off that could lead to some more money. But, he _does_ get home before Bucky does and gets to surprise his ma. He stands still while she smothers him in kisses and then he helps her prepare supper and set the table. Just before supper is ready, they hear Bucky come through the door.

“Sorry I’m late, Sarah!” he calls from the living room. “I’ll set the table quick -.” he trails off as he walks into the kitchen and spots Steve.

“Already taken care of,” Steve tells Bucky.

Bucky moves around the perimeter of the kitchen, which is outrageous, since their kitchen is _tiny._ Finally he makes a quick run at his seat. 

“Are you alright, Bucky?” his ma asks.

“Yeah, you’re acting kinda strange, pal,” he adds.

Bucky at least looks somewhat mortified, which is satisfying. “I’m alright.”

His ma frowns but lets it drop. They wait for her to serve herself before they both dig in. “Well, let's eat then.”

“How was your day, Steve?” his ma asks.

Steve smiles, “You know, Ma, it was a really great day. How was your day, Buck?”

Bucky looks back at him, blushing pink. “It was fine. Nothing out of the ordinary.” 

They finish their meal and Bucky volunteers to wash the dishes, which makes Ma frown again. Bucky hates washing the dishes. In the living room, getting ready to leave for her shift, she asks him quietly if Bucky is really alright. 

“He’s fine, Ma. I’ll talk to him in a bit.” 

He sits in the living room waiting for Bucky to come out, but the minutes drag on and Bucky doesn’t come out. Steve walks to their shared room. Bucky is sitting scrunched up in the corner of the bed, reading. He doesn’t look up when Steve sits down at the opposite end.

“Good book?”

Bucky sighs and puts the books aside. “Not really. Actually, it’s pretty bad.” He chews at his lip, which Steve is forever cursed to find distracting. Finally he looks up at Steve, “I’m sorry I interrupted your...ya know,” and points down to Steve's crotch.

“Jesus, Bucky,” Steve laughs. “Was it an emergency?” 

Bucky shakes his head no, the nods yes only to shake it again no.

“Alright, that clears matters up. At any rate, I think we need to set some ground rules with visiting me like that.”

“That sounds fair.”

“No screaming my name. I don’t want to tell you not to visit, but maybe take a look first. And if I’m...in the middle of something, god _do not tell me_. I don’t think I can handle that again.”

“Alright,” Bucky says, then smiles. “So you and Lenny huh?”

“Yeah, well we ain’t dating or anything like that. It’s just casual fun. Like you and the dames at school you go dance with.” 

“Oh, yeah, them.” Bucky pulls a face. “Are you staying the night?”

“Are you alright with me staying the night?” 

Bucky pins him with a withering glare and then launches the pillow beside him at Steve’s head. 

“Hey!”

“Of course I want you here,” Bucky says. “I always want you.”

He tosses the pillow back next to Bucky and lays down next to him. “Wanna read to me?”

“Oh, it’s really really bad, Steve.”

“So we’ll make fun of it.”

Bucky takes a moment to consider it, but Steve knows he wants to. He knows he’s won when Bucky picks the book back up again and slides down the bed so they’re laying side by side. Instead of reading, Bucky turns towards him, “I am sorry. I didn’t think and I should have.”

“If I thought that you were being malicious, I would have been a lot angrier, Buck. But I know you. I’ll always know you.”

“Ok.” Bucky smiles brightly, “I’ve got something to show you first.”

* * *

  
In the fall, Steve starts art school and abandons Bucky to face high school alone, and it’s _so_ dull without him. Bucky pleads with Sarah to let him leave school early. _Legally,_ he only had to stay in school until he was fourteen and he made it to _sixteen._ With him out of school they could add one more income. 

Sarah does _not_ give him an answer right away, though her legendary poker face slipped a bit, showing her displeasure, and instead waits until supper to ask Steve what he thinks. 

_That_ results in an epic battle of wills, that he ultimately loses. Bucky doesn’t bring it up again. 

With Steve in college, he starts to feel the real distance in their two years apart. It didn’t matter much when they were eight and ten. Most ten year olds wouldn’t have been caught dead with an eight year old. But he knew from the moment he saw Steve that they should be friends. Both his ma and his grandma had encouraged him to befriend Steve and Bucky made it his solitary mission. He and Steve fit together. It was them against the world. Or at least them against George Washington Elementary. And what’s the difference between twenty-five and twenty-seven or forty and forty-two? Nothing. But seventeen and nineteen? It feels like an eternity. An unbridgeable gap between childhood and adulthood. The difference between having high school friends and high school problems and having adult art school friends and now all the world’s problems are your problems too.

And outside of school? These days Bucky has more competition for Steve’s time. He always knew the day would come where Steve would meet more people that would appreciate him for all he is. He’s happy for Steve. He loves Steve and wants him to have the world. Steve _deserves_ the world. Bucky’s...just having a hard time adjusting to Steve not being exclusively his. 

At night, Steve and his classmates and friends go out for a drink and a dance. Steve confides in Bucky one late night, or rather, early morning, that he really doesn’t do either. The drinks are too hard on his system and he often pays for it the day after. And he’s always disliked dancing, refusing Bucky’s offers to teach him, much to his disappointment. He’d like nothing more than the feeling of Steve’s fingers splayed at his hips and Bucky’s own arms thrown around Steve’s neck, playing at his golden hair as their bodies move in time to the music. Bucky asks why he goes then. 

“I like the atmosphere. It’s different from high school. And Lenny is there.” 

Ah, Lenny. Sometimes Steve doesn’t even come home. Bucky, well he knows what they’re up to _now._ The whole thing is just plain unfair. Bucky would have sex with Steve, if he’d realized that Steve liked men. But now Steve’s having sex with someone else, and Bucky can’t be like, geez Steve, wanna have sex with me too? 

So Bucky continues going to high school. A real bore. And doesn’t have sex with _anyone_. A real shame. 

“Deep in thought, sugar?” a sultry voice comes from the alley.

“Hey, Gabrielle.” He slows and drifts back behind Kramer’s. 

“Doll, you can call me Gabby, you know that.” 

Bucky gives her his most flirtatious smile. “You’re trouble, Gabby.”

The spirit throws her head back in laughter. Gabby is far and away one of the most ‘close to living’ spirits that he’s met besides his ma, and even her personality and appearance had faded in the last years of her visits. Bucky likes her. She’s sweet and cheerful and Bucky enjoys making her smile. She also happens to be the first spirit, outside his family, that he met _before_ she died. Well, met might be the wrong description. Maybe seen, though not her face. He never saw her face when she was alive. The only part of her that he’d seen were her scuffed oxfords, tattered fur coat and a pair of stockings with a run in them. Maybe the other reason he likes Gabby so much is because he feels a bit guilty. He’d just finished beating Alvin when he and Gabby had shared an alley for a brief moment. Bucky had left and gone home, safe. Gabby had gone with that man and been murdered. 

“By the look on your face, it looks like you’re the one with trouble. What’s got you thinking. Pretty dame?”

Bucky rolls his eyes and smirks, “I ain't got no problem with the dames.”

“Mmmhmmm.” Gabby looks at him appraisingly, tapping at her chin. “I got it! You, Bucky dear, have boy problems.”

Bucky spins in a circle, momentarily forgetting that Gabby is a spirit and no one else can hear her. 

“Eureka, I think we have a winner.”

“He’s _not_ a boy.”

“Oh! You have _man_ troubles. Well, lucky for you, I happen to be an expert in troubling men. It’s how I came to be in this very alley after all.”

“Gabby, that’s terrible.”

“I’m dead, I get to kid about it. So tell me, who is he?”

“You know Steve? He works in the store?” He nods in the direction of Kramer’s. “I live with him and his ma and I’ve had a crush on him for forever. But...he’s got a guy. A good guy. And I don’t know if he’s ever seen me like that, you know? And I want him to be happy. So I _don’t_ want to cause any trouble.”

“Oh, well, sugar. There’s a real simple solution,” she says.

“Yeah?” Bucky asks.

“Yeah. You gotta get a boyfriend.” 

“Oh, sure that sounds easy,” Bucky says.

“I’m serious. Number one, you don’t mess up his relationship. Number two, you show him that you’re interested in fellas. Number three, you get some experience under your belt, literally. And number four, if he does happen to see you ‘like that’, you’ll drive him to distraction just thinking about you with some other fella that ain’t him.”

Bucky considers the plan briefly and then shakes his head. “Where am I supposed to find a fella who’s interested? Not like I can just be open about it and ask at school.”

“I mean, I hardly think you’re the only one at your school who may be having these thoughts. Have you ever actually looked at anyone other than Steve?” 

He thinks about it for a moment and finds that he hasn’t, not really. His focus had always been on Steve in that regard. Sure, he’d talk to the girls and he loved dancing with them. He’s kissed a few of them even. But he’s never been interested in more than that. It stands to reason that he and Steve aren’t the only fellas at school pretending.

“Alright, I’ll consider it,” he tells her, and he does for a few days. Then he goes back to school and looks at his classmates and realizes that even if any of them did like fellas, Bucky’s not interested in any of them.

* * *

“Teach me how to dance,” Steve asks him excitedly two weeks later. 

Bucky puts down the book he’s reading. “Right now?”

“You’ve got something pressing, Buck?”

“Not particularly. I’ve just been trying to get you to learn for years now.”

“It was never the right time. Now it is.”

Bucky shrugs his shoulders and slides off the bed. Might as well be the one to teach him. Once they’ve pushed all the furniture out of the way, Bucky turns on the radio and looks into Steve’s eyes. “You’d best listen to my directions, Steven. If I’m teaching you how to dance, I won’t have you out there in Brooklyn sullying my good name and embarrassing me with terribly executed dance moves.”

“You have my word, James. Your reputation is safe with me.”

Bucky turns on the radio and moves the dial until a dance worthy beat fills the room. “Here we go.”

Steve is _not_ a bad dancer it turns out. He gets over his nerves quickly and follows Bucky’s instructions patiently. Steve’s problem is that he doesn’t like getting things wrong. Bucky had been kidding about the badly executed dance moves, but Steve has suffered from perfectionism for as long as Bucky has known him. 

“I’m not going to break you, Steve. You just need to _bend_ a little. There, see? That’s better.” Bucky tells him.

Steve straightens up, swiping at his sweaty hair. Bucky likes it. “Ok, do that move again.”

“We’ll do it again, but next dance if you make a mistake, you need to just move on. Your dance partner will get over it. I promise.”

Steve nods his head, but his face says, _absolutely not_. Well, he tried. Sorry Lenny. Bucky shrugs his shoulders and squares up to Steve again. They wait for the right beat and they’re off again. By the end of the night Steve’s got the basics of three different dances down...not bad...and Bucky is feeling the effects of having Steve’s hands on him for the evening. As much as he likes having Steve home sleeping next to him, part of him hopes that he’ll go to Lenny’s and leave him the room to take care of...a couple things. 

“I think I’m going to run to Lenny’s for the night,” Steve says guiltily, still a bit flushed and breathless from the dancing.

“Tell him I say hi,” Bucky says, moving back to flick the radio off and tries to will his own libido back down from the atmosphere. “When do you want to practice again?”

“Again?” Steve asks.

“I mean, you’ve got the basic steps down. A couple common moves. Practicing will make you feel more confident.”

Steve looks down and away, his tell that they’re in territory Steve would rather avoid. Maybe Bucky made him uncomfortable. Maybe Steve noticed that Bucky liked dancing with him a little too much. Maybe Steve really _doesn’t_ see Bucky like that. 

“It’s alright though, if you don’t want to. Practicing with me is good, but you’ll actually learn a lot more at the dance hall.” Bucky _hates_ seeing Steve unsure of himself. So what if Steve doesn’t want to dance with him. The point was to get Steve dancing and he’s done that. It’s fine. It’s fine if he doesn’t get to have Steve’s hands on him. It’s fine if this was all one-sided, he figured it was at any rate. 

“Thanks Buck,” Steve says, finally looking back at him. “I should, uh, go.”

“Let me know how the dancing goes, or I’ll find Lenny and ask him myself,” he lies. 

“Sure thing, Buck.” Steve says tightly and turns to the door. 

Bucky listens for the soft click of the door shutting before he lets the smile drop from his face. On the bright side, he thinks, he doesn’t have to worry about his libido. 

* * *

A week later over dinner, Steve tells Sarah about his dance lesson with Bucky and how surprised his friends were as he accepted their dance offers rather than declining. Sarah recovers from her initial shock and demands proof after dinner. Bucky sits by the radio and places himself in charge of choosing the music. He critiques Steve’s form for fun but outright refuses to dance when asked. He’s tired, he says or he just wants to watch. In reality, he does not need a repeat of the other night. He’s had years of practice on how to put on a brave face, but there’s only so much a horny love sick teenager can take. So instead, he sits and watches two of his four favorite people on this side of Beyond swing and kick until they’re both exhausted. 

Three weeks later, Bucky orbits the streets surrounding the docks. This is his third time making the trip and he’s got his routine down. He’d been nervous on his first trip, even if he’d done his best to look like he belonged. He slicked his hair back with Brilliantine and dressed in his nicest shirt and trousers. Gabby had given his general appearance her enthusiastic approval and he’d left the alley with a blush burning across his cheeks. The only piece of advice she’d given him, was to act like he belonged. If he acted like he was supposed to be there, most people won’t go out of their way to hassle him.

Tonight, the tavern is busy and the dance floor crowded. It’s loud and boisterous and the air’s thick with cigarette smoke. Bucky tucks himself away in the corner booth of the crowded bar, same as he’s done for the last two Friday nights. Steve is out on the floor, dancing with Lenny, all smiles and laughter.

“Can I buy you a drink?” Bucky hears from his side but ignores it in favor of watching Steve spin Lenny in then out again. Steve does it perfectly. Bucky sighs, annoyed with what a good teacher he is. 

“Good job, Barnes. Perfect,” he mumbles.

Suddenly another Coke slides in front of him while a young man slides onto the opposite bench. Bucky looks at the stranger. He shouldn’t have noticed Bucky. His eyes should have slid over Bucky’s booth like nothing was there. But then Bucky sees it. _Just enough_ of the right kind of shining to completely derail Bucky’s anonymity. He hadn’t thought of that. Well, at least he got a free drink from the guy. 

“He your ex or something?” the stranger asks, making Bucky choke on the sip he’d just taken. And fuck, now he’s gotta try to choke quietly? Serves him right he supposes.

“No, why would you ask that?” Bucky says.

“I’ve seen you in here the last two Fridays and you watch the dance floor. But a lot of times, you’re just watching one particular fella on the floor.” 

“He’s a friend,” Bucky huffs out. 

“Sure, which is why you’re over here and he’s over there. Why don't you go out on the dance floor with him?” he says with a smirk. “Maybe you don’t know how to dance.”

Oh, now he’s gone too far. “I happen to be a very good dancer. In fact, I taught him,” he points Steve’s way, “everything he knows.”

The stranger raises an eyebrow. It’s a nice eyebrow, perfectly sculpted. Steve would very much appreciate that eyebrow, artistically speaking. Bucky finds himself appreciating it as well. Too bad it’s attached to a nosey fella. 

“It’s none of your business anyhow,” Bucky says.

“No, you’re right. It’s not,” the stranger says.

Bucky blows out a sigh of relief. Maybe he’ll be left alone and…

“But here’s what I think,” the stranger interrupts his thought. “I think you do know the blond over there. But I don’t think that you’re supposed to be in here. No one has kicked you out but you and I know why that is. I think you like to dance...you tap your feet under the table...and I don’t think that dames dancing with dames and fellas dancing with fellas bothers you in the slightest.”

“It doesn’t bother me. People should be able to dance with whoever they want.”

“And…?”

“I may not _legally_ be old enough to be in here. But! He is my friend. I just...I don’t like being left behind.”

The stranger hmmmms. “Sometimes a little space makes friendships stronger.”

Bucky sure hopes so. He’s not sure how he can survive another year of this. 

“You know, there are a lot of other dance halls around here where you _could_ dance. Maybe make some friends of your own? Get your mind off of someone.” 

Little chance of that happening. Bucky takes another long look over at Steve. Lenny’s arm is draped over his shoulder and Steve’s head is leaning on Lenny’s chest. Steve looks happy. And Steve’s happiness shouldn’t revolve solely around Bucky. He should let Steve be happy. “Like where?”

The stranger grins. “I’ll show you.”

“You weren’t even supposed to see me.” 

“You did good. I watched you. No one else even knew you were here. I just...got a gift for seeing things that people are trying to hide.”

“Inconvenient for those of us trying to hide.”

“Ah now. I like to think of our meeting as serendipitous. Tell me, you ever hide anything bigger than yourself and a drink?”

Bucky eyes the guy suspiciously. “Why?”

“I might have an employment opportunity for you.”

Bucky looks at the man harder and thinks of the dwindling funds in their apartment. They paid their rent ahead of time with much of the money Millie had sent and most of the rest they were saving for this winter, in case Steve needs medicine. It’s rare for them to be able to plan ahead for Steve’s illness instead of scrambling to cover the cost when it happens. It would be nice to stay ahead.

“I’m not killing anyone or hiding any bodies,” Bucky tells him seriously. 

“No killing and no bodies, I promise,” he says with a chuckle, “What’s your name, kid?”

A round of laughter breaks out across the way. He hears the sweetest of laughs, the one that used to be just his, and sighs. “James. What’s yours?”

“Nice meet you, James. I’m Marco.” 

* * *

It starts with a little pinch in her side, a little hitch in her breath. She doesn’t notice it at first though. She’s in her _forties,_ sometimes her body twinges and stings for no reason other than to tell her she’s made it another year. So she didn’t think anything of the slight pull across her ribcage when she had to take a flight of stairs. 

And then she coughed.

It was just a little cough at first and a cough isn’t really that much to concern yourself over either. Her biggest concerns with coming home with a cough had always been passing it on to Steve. She’d smothered the tickle in her throat the best she could, grateful that Steve had been spending more and more time away from the apartment, waiting for it to go away. 

But, it doesn’t go away. And a cough that’s lodged itself in the lungs of a TB ward nurse, that won’t shake loose, that’s another story entirely. She hopes desperately for a summer cold but instead is rewarded with waking in the dead of the night, her nightgown saturated with sweat. 

She changes and goes to pour herself a glass of water. 

“Shit,” she startles when she makes her way into the kitchen. Bucky rocks the rickety chair gently while staring at the book in his hands. He doesn’t look up, but he does fold the edge of the page over to mark his spot and places the book to the side carefully. 

She stands before him, this child who knows too much. She’s torn. She wants him to leave silently without a word. She wants to demand that he _look,_ really look as hard as he can and tell her what he sees. She wants to hug him, and tell him that it’s alright. He can’t help what he sees. In the end, she does none of these things. She stands in front of him, lungs aching and sweat drying on her skin, terrified to break the stillness. A cowardly act of a woman who has always prided herself on her bravery. 

Bucky looks up. “I had a bad feeling.” 

She sits down at the table and looks him over as he does the same to her. Already eighteen but still with rounded cheeks and eyes that will betray his every emotion when he’s not hiding them. And he is so very good at hiding them if needed. But not tonight. Tonight, his emotions, and her fate, are right there on display on his face.

“Sometimes, it can go away,” Hh says finally. “That happens sometimes.”

“Oh, darling. I hope so,” she tells him though she knows the statistics. 

“What happens now?”

“I’ll go to Astoria tomorrow. You’ll need to open the window and sit with the door open tomorrow to air the place out.”

“Saranac Lake’s sanatorium is better. That’s where Marco’s cousin went.”

“We can’t afford that. Astoria will be fine.” Astoria is closer too. Not as far for them to transport her body, she doesn’t say. 

“We can afford it,” Bucky pushes.

“I know how much Astoria costs and I know how much Saranac Lake costs.”

“And I’m saying we can afford it. I promise.”

Sarah has a very vague idea of what Marco does for a living and an even more vague idea of what Bucky does. She knows that he runs errands for the Scalzi family, and that’s enough to make her nervous about his well-being. But Bucky assures her that his job isn’t dangerous and that he’s not hurting anyone so she doesn’t ask any questions.

“I don’t want to waste money that you and Steve may need. And it’s closer to home. Astoria...that’s final, Bucky.”

Bucky leans back in his chair with a huff and crosses his arms. “I can get the money, Sarah.”

“Final answer, Bucky,” she says sternly. She knows that low boiling anger he’s feeling is coming from a place of fear. He’s lost all the adults in his life. Had his sisters taken from him. Now, he’s faced with losing her as well. She’s felt the same fear throughout the years as she’s watched Steve fall ill over and over again. “Remember what you said. It’s not always a death sentence. Some people can shake it.” 

Bucky nods in defeat. “Right, you just need rest and fresh air.”

“I’ll never be so well rested as I am there.” She smiles at him, grateful for the reprieve.

“I’ll find Steve first thing tomorrow,” he tells her. “Don’t...leave before I bring him here. He’ll be angrier than a hornet.”

“Thank you, Bucky,” she says. When he walks back to his room he doesn’t look back, just nods his head and disappears into the darkness.

* * *

Steve finds Bucky at a hidden club close to the docks. 

It happens by accident. Checking out the club had been Betty’s idea. She’d heard about it from a friend and they’d collectively decided to shake up their routine. They take their time getting there, winding through the crowded streets, doing their best to look like two young couples going out on the town. Steve walks besides Maria with Lenny and Betty trailing behind.

They find an empty table with ease. The club’s not empty by any means, but there are plenty of outer tables that haven't been claimed. Patrons linger at the wooden bar running the length of the far wall and fill the tables surrounding the dance floor, talking between tables with a comfort that shows they’re regulars. He twists and looks further behind him and finds an attractive man tapping ash from his cigarette. Sculpting isn’t really his medium, but _that_ is a face worthy of being committed to marble; high cheekbones, straight Roman nose, a beautiful jawline. His dark hair is slicked back away from a ravishing brow.

“He’s very handsome,” Lenny says from across the table. They’re still not exclusive and they’ve never minded the other looking, but they usually don’t do it when in the company of the other. They’re not rude after all. But sometimes, they’ll appreciate a pretty face together.

“Look at those eyebrows,” Steve says dreamily. 

“You and eyebrows, Steve.” Lenny laughs and then abruptly stops, the smile dropping from his face. “Oh _damn_.”

“What?” Steve says, following his gaze back to the table. The man is still in there, leaned back and looking up into the face of a younger man standing between his splayed legs. Steve frowns. He knows those pants. And that shirt, he knows that shirt. But more than that, he knows those hips, cocked to one side and he knows that waist and those shoulders.

Bucky crowds in closer and then leans down, bracing his hands on the man’s shoulders. The man smiles and Steve, who had moments ago had the utmost appreciation for his face, now despises him. 

“I didn’t know Bucky had a boyfriend,” Lenny says to him. 

Steve shakes his head.

“He does _not_ have a boyfriend.” Steve seethes just as Bucky leans down and kisses the man.

“Ok,” Lenny says cautiously. “A good friend then?”

The man lifts a hand to the back of Bucky’s neck and pulls him closer, deepening the kiss.

“A really good friend?” Lenny tries but Steve’s already out of his chair. He marches the distance between the two tables and clears his throat noisily. The man drops his hand, breaks the kiss off and looks to Steve just a fraction of a second before Bucky turns to him.

“Steve?” Bucky sure sounds shocked, but it’s always a guessing game for Steve. He knows that Bucky can ‘see’ him if he’s looking, but Steve doesn’t know if he’s also just simply aware of his presence. Is he really so shocked to see Steve? Or did Bucky know he was here and decided to put on a show? 

“Steve!” The man says getting up with a smile. “I’ve heard so much about you!”

He’s tall and his body has more bulk than the delicate features of his face had hinted at. He takes Steve’s hand in his and shakes it enthusiastically. Steve looks to Bucky, standing to the side looking worried and a little pale. 

“Honey, you didn’t tell me Steve was coming tonight.” The man looks over at Bucky. 

_Honey._ Steve hates this man. 

“I didn’t know Steve _was_ coming tonight.” Bucky shifts nervously. “This isn’t his usual tavern.”

“No, it’s not, is it?” the man says, throwing a wink and a smile over at Bucky, like they’re sharing an inside joke. _That’s_ enough of that.

“You know he’s eighteen, right?” Steve blurts.

“I’ll be nineteen in less than a month,” Bucky shoots back with a glare. 

“On March 10th,” the man says, “Seems like just yesterday that we met.”

“Marco,” Bucky says sharply. “I’ll be right back. Steve and I need to talk.”

Bucky marches over and pulls Steve by the hand towards the back of the bar. He thinks they’re heading outside but is surprised when Bucky veers them down a dark hallway and to a door. He pulls out a key, unlocks the door and pushes Steve inside the small office. Bucky turns on the small lamp on the table. 

“I thought Marco was your boss,” Steve says dumbly. 

“Marco _is not_ my boss.”

“So he’s your boyfriend.”

“Not really.” Bucky drops into a chair with a sigh. “Marco doesn’t really have boyfriends.” 

Steve doesn’t know what to say that wouldn’t sound hypocritical. It’s not as if he could say, _so you just kiss guys you’re not dating_ , because, well, Steve kisses a guy that he’s not dating. 

“How long have you two been, _not dating_?”

“What’s it matter, Steve? You’ve got Lenny. And, you started seeing Lenny before you were eighteen. So none of that.”

“Lenny is barely a year older than me. Marco is what, twenty-five?” Way too old for Bucky. 

“He’s twenty-three. And it’s not any of your business, Steve. I never butt into your personal life.”

“You _literally_ saw me getting my dicked sucked,” Steve sputters angrily, remembering the afternoon Bucky had dropped in on him and Lenny.

“By _accident_!” Bucky yells. “I never tried to invade your privacy.” 

“Is that what this is? Me invading your privacy? We live together. You know most of my friends. I don’t know any of yours. And apparently I didn’t know you were fucking your boss.” 

“Again, he’s not my boss. We work _together_.”

“Oh, sorry. I wasn’t aware that you were fucking your coworker.” 

“Well now you know!” Bucky yells and jumps out of his chair and stalks towards Steve. Steve wasn’t aware that someone could stalk in such a small space, but that’s what Bucky does. It’s...really a turn on. When Bucky speaks next, he lowers his voice. “I _love_ fucking him. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“Yes! No, god Bucky none of this is what I wanted.”

“What do you want, Steve? Are you really angry?” Bucky takes another step towards him. 

“Yes.” Steve takes a step back. He _is_ angry.

“At me?” Bucky asks, his voice soft. His blue eyes vulnerable. 

“No.”

“Are you jealous?”

“Yes...” he tried to yell, but it only comes out broken and desperate. 

Bucky crowds him up against the door. He’s leaning in close, so close and whispers, “Do you want to be the one kissing me, Steve?”

“Yes,” he whispers back.

Bucky leans in closer, their lips so close to brushing. “What’s stopping you?”

_Nothing_ , Steve thinks. 

He grabs the back of Bucky’s neck like he watched Marco do not long ago and pulls him in. He doesn’t keep it a sweet chaste thing, he’s wanted this too bad for too long. He licks into Bucky’s mouth and feels Bucky doing the same. Bucky has him pushed flat against the door and his hands move up and down Steve’s sides, pausing at his hips and squeezing. Steve breaks the kiss finally, when he becomes breathless yet not at all satiated. 

“We should get back out there,” Bucky says, lips hovering over Steve’s lips.

“Right,” Steve agrees, and then pushes forward so their lips brush. “They’re probably wondering where I’m at.”

“Probably,” Bucky says, bringing a hand up to brush his cheek before stepping back. 

Steve runs a hand through his hair and straightens his shirt and attempts to adjust himself in his pants. “Whose office is this anyway?”

“Marco’s,” Bucky replies, fixing his own hair. 

“Jesus, Bucky, seriously?” Steve laughs. Leave it to Bucky to make out with him in his not-boyfriend, not-boss’s office.

“I thought it was just going to be yelling,” Bucky says, adjusting his own trousers. “Alright, do we look like we haven’t been making out?”

“Yeah, you look alright.”

“Oh, Stevie, you charmer. I don’t think I’ve ever had a fella tell me I look _alright_ before.”

“You’re such a jerk. I don’t even know why I kissed you now.” 

Bucky pouts at him. “Too late. You shoulda thought of that before.” 

“You’ve never accused me of thinking things through.”

“You’ve got a point.” He steps into Steve’s space again, suddenly serious. “Hey...we’re gonna kiss again, right?”

“Yeah, Buck. We’re gonna kiss again.”

* * *

It takes an entire agonizing week for them to kiss again.

It’s insanity that _now_ they become shy around one another, after years of living together, but it happens all the same. The few times they’re in the apartment at the same time, they skirt around one another but mostly they simply don’t see each other. Steve’s got classes, work, and Lenny. Bucky’s got work and Marco.

He doesn’t feel any guilt over kissing Bucky. He and Lenny had sworn off exclusivity, so he doesn’t feel like he’s cheated. But... he does want exclusivity with Bucky. And if Bucky wants that too, that means he needs to talk with Lenny. He needs to end things with Lenny. 

But first he talks to his ma. He sends a letter to Astoria, telling her that he’s ending his relationship with Lenore, their name for Lenny, because he’s considering a relationship with one of his longtime friends ‘Beatrice’. He asks for her advice. Does she think it’s a good idea? He and Beatrice have known each other for a long time after all. He doesn’t expect a quick response. Letters coming out of the sanitarium are left out in the open air for...however long the staff decides on that week. So it comes as a surprise when within the week her short reply comes. 

_About time. Beatrice is lovely and I know you two will take good care of one another. Sending you both my love -- Sarah_

He holds the letter and misses his ma desperately. Having her blessing means so much to him and he knows it’ll mean a lot to Bucky too. Later that same night he goes to see Lenny. 

He’s nervous. Lenny, he is so many of Steve’s firsts, even if they never made their relationship official. It never mattered to Steve, maybe it should have, but they worked. He sits on Lenny’s sofa, lost in his thoughts...questions flying through his mind. Will they stay friends? What will happen to their small friend group? He’s still running circles in his own mind when Lenny breaks the news to him.

It turns out, he’s been accepted to a prestigious art school on the west coast to continue his studies and plans to move at the end of the school year. Steve’s full of mixed feelings. He’s relieved for one. It feels a lot better breaking things off when he knows Lenny’s got something to move on to. But he also feels a little hurt. Lenny never mentioned applying to the program. There’s no use in bringing that up, so he settles on happiness. 

“I’m happy for you, Len,” Steve tells him sincerely and pulls him down onto the couch next to him and wraps him in his arms. “I’ll miss you. You were the perfect not-boyfriend.”

Lenny laughs into Steve’s neck as they hug. Steve relaxes into the embrace. He’ll miss the casual touches between them, sitting in a tangle on the couch listening to the radio.

“I’ll miss you too, Steve,” Lenny tells him and then adds slyly, “but I bet you and Bucky will be happy.”

Steve tenses up, ready to deny deny deny until he looks into Lenny’s smiling face and there’s not a trace of anger or jealousy is present. “You knew?”

“That you liked him? I wasn’t sure. Not until the other night at the club. Then, well, you weren’t exactly subtle. But that he liked you? Oh, Steve, that kid has had the most obvious crush on you since he was fifteen. Maybe even before that, but I didn’t know him then.”

Oh. 

“I see that dumb look on your face. You really didn’t know?”

“I had no idea.” 

“Well, let my first piece of relationship advice to my ex-not-boyfriend be...maybe you two should sit down and have a talk.”

“Good advice,” Steve mumbles to himself as Lenny continues to laugh at him. 

* * *

Bucky wakes screaming. Steve holds him close, running his hand up and down his back. Steve tells him it’s ok, but he knows that when Bucky wakes like this, there’s usually a reason. And it’s never good. 

Bucky doesn’t have to say that he’s got a bad feeling, but he does.

_I have a bad feeling_ , Bucky whispers into Steve’s ear even though Steve already knows. God, he knows. 

Steve holds Bucky the rest of the night, long after he stops trembling. In the early morning, when the sun’s rays begin streaming through the window, Bucky starts coming back to himself. Steve looks down into his slow blinking eyes. 

“I hate that part,” Bucky tells him. 

“Me too,” Steve says. He hates watching Bucky suffer.

“But I hate the next part more,” Bucky says. 

Steve kisses the top of Bucky’s head, “I know you do.”

It’s the waiting to find out what happened that Bucky hates. He doesn’t have to wait long. 

By the time they leave the apartment, the news is everywhere. 

Germany invaded Poland.


	7. Chapter 7

“I heard that there’s a recruitment station in Queens where the doc is ignoring flat feet,” Steve says offhandedly from where he’s sketching across the room.

Bucky puts his book down and turns his head lethargically. The apartment feels like a kettle moments away from screaming on the stove, but he knows it’ll be worse out on the street so he stays put and tries to move as little as possible. He takes a deep breath and considers the effort it takes to talk. He lets the words kinda just roll around in his mouth and decides that he doesn’t want to talk, he just wants to exist on the floor of their apartment like a molten blob of slag. He turns his head away. Maybe Steve will think all of his brain cells have liquified and he’s no longer sentient.

“Buck? Did you hear me?”

How can Steve be talking? He does run a bit colder. Maybe….

“Come lay on me,” he demands.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m so hot. You’re colder than me. Come lay on me.”

Steve puts his pencils aside and walks over to Bucky. His golden hair sways as he looks down at Bucky with his gorgeous blue eyes. He’s so pretty.

“You’re so pretty,” he sighs.

“Do you have heat stroke?” Steve gives him an unimpressed glance.

“Maybe. Come cool me off.”

“Right, because this has always worked before. In all the years of me laying by you.”

“It’s worth a try.”

“I’m busy.”

Bucky pouts and whines up at him.

“Jesus, fine,” Steve says. He shimmies out of his clothes until he’s down to his undergarments, matching Bucky.

Bucky spreads his legs and arms like a starfish and smiles up at Steve, who rolls his eyes and lowers himself onto Bucky. Bucky scratches the top of Steve’s head with the stubble of his chin earning a, “stop it you jerk,” mumbled into his neck.

The weight of Steve is nice, like it always is, but it doesn’t take long for Bucky’s body to heat Steve’s up. Now they’re just two hot bodies sweat-stuck together.

“This is not working,” he complains into Steve’s hair.

“You don’t say?” Steve responds. And it’s funny because Steve falls silent, but his mouth keeps moving along Bucky’s neck. “Hey, doll,” Steve says against his neck, “you busy?”

Bucky throws his head back in laughter, “I thought you were busy.”

“M’not that busy,” he says with a roll of his hips.

“Are you sure?” Bucky asks, trying to sound unaffected. “I don’t want you to get behind on your work.”

“Mhmmm. You seemed so concerned before when you thought I’d turned into a human ice-box.”

“Oh,” he says dreamily, “that sounds nice. Stick me in an ice-box please.”

“You’re an idiot. Concentrate here,” he says rolling his hips again.

“Alright,” Bucky pants out, “if you’re sure.”

They grind together, hard in their underwear...

“Why are we still wearing underwear?” Bucky groans out.

“Good question,” Steve says in between kissing his neck. Then he lifts himself off Bucky and shucks the rest of his wardrobe. Steve never believes him when he says, but he’s got the most beautiful body Bucky’s ever fucked. His shoulders are perfect for biting, his collarbones beg for the scrape of Bucky’s teeth and on afternoons spent lazily kissing, his hands roam up and down Steve’s chest, gliding over his soft skin and teasing his nipples. Steve’s waist deserves nothing less than worship and Bucky would spend an eternity on his knees for that narrow expanse...and then there’s Steve’s cock. Talk about spending an eternity on his knees in worship. Steve might be a slip of thing, but he’s got a cock on him that you’d expect to see on someone four times his size. It makes Bucky’s mouth water.

“You gonna stay there on the floor?” Steve asks while dropping himself onto the sofa. “Or are you gonna come over here?”

Bucky scrambles up off the floor and only but manages to keep from tripping over his own underwear before straddling Steve’s thighs. Bucky grinds their cocks together in his hand, while Steve keeps one arm around his ass and the other one trails up his back. Up, up and up until his fingers comb through Bucky’s hair and settle on the back of his head. Bucky rolls his hips, threads his own fingers into Steve’s hair. They pant, mouths so close to touching, breathing each other’s air until Steve pulls at him and they’re kissing. It doesn’t take long for the both of them to come all over his hand and he strokes them messily until Steve starts cursing at him.

Later, after he falls asleep to the sound of Steve’s soft breaths, he dreams of Germany. Bucky has thought about his visit over the years even as the memory started to fade. His memory of Zugspitze, once so clear and staggering, is now nothing more than a photo, aged and blurred. In his dream, he’s inside Zugspitze. Of course he’s never been within the mountain, he never attempted to go back after he escaped Johann’s grip, but he’s certain he’s within it the way you’re certain of everything in your dreams.

On a steel table, flanked by Arnim and an unknown man, Johann screams and thrashes. The room is cold and smells of sweat and piss. He creeps forward silently to get a closer look. Whatever Johann got himself into serves him right. It’s only a shame that Arnim isn’t screaming right along with him. Step by step, he makes his way to the table. Arnim and the other man pay him no attention, but Johann looks directly at him. Bucky frowns.

What is wrong with his face, he thinks. The right side of Johann’s face droops like wax running down a candle. Suddenly, his hand darts up from his side and grabs at the back of his head, fisting his own hair like he did to Bucky all those years ago. With a great yell, he pulls, the skin splits with a sickening wet tear. Johann pulls and pulls until a bloody strip of flesh dangles from his hand.

A hysterical laugh breaks free from Johann. He rips at his face until all the skin has been torn free from the bone. And Johann continues to laugh through it all. Bucky and the other two men freeze in shock and horror as Johann looks back at them, his skull as red as blood.

Bucky goes from sleep to awake in the span of a breath with Johann’s laugh still ringing in his head.

“Buck? You alright?” Steve asks sleepily.

A shocked laugh punches out of him, “Yeah, I’m fine. I just had the strangest dream though.”

“Just a dream?”

“Oh yeah.” He curls back into Steve’s body and thinks back on Johann’s face, “Absolutely a dream.”

* * *

“Are you gonna tell me where we’re going now?” he asks Bucky.

They’ve settled into the back of one of Marco’s cars, one of the club’s bouncers in the front as their driver. Bucky’s only answer so far has been a sly knowing grin.

“Why do you want to ruin the surprise, Stevie?”

“Why can’t you answer the question?” he shoots back and mutters, “I don’t like surprises.”

Bucky looks back to him, empathetic as always. “I know. I promise it’s good, but I’ll tell you if you really want to know.”

“Just, maybe give me a hint.” He doesn’t want to ruin Bucky’s work, but he also knows that Bucky won’t enjoy this if Steve isn’t enjoying it.

“Central Park. A late graduation and birthday present.”

That's unexpected. He turns to face Bucky. “You are aware that there are parks in Brooklyn that we could have gone to.”

“Are there?” Bucky grins over at him.

“There are in fact several parks that we could have gone to in the time it’s taken us to make it to this one.”

“You don’t say.”

Steve groans and looks out the car window. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate spending the day with you, even at Central Park, but, why Manhattan?”

“You’ve been stressed. This’ll help.”

The guilt of not pulling his own weight at home has really been getting to him lately. Graduation was a full two month ago, and he still hasn’t found a fulltime job. He’s got applications put in all over the city, he’s using all the connections he’s made over the last four years, and he’s in the running for a job at the college. He turns back to Bucky.

“I feel like I’m letting you down. I’m finished with school and I should have a job.”

“You’ll be fine. We’ll be fine. Now stop.”

Steve sits back, taps his foot on the floorboard, shifts back and forth.

“You are the worst. Relax, Steve. Enjoy the drive.” Bucky rests his hand palm up on the seat. Steve smiles and slips his hand into Bucky’s. They lace their fingers together and Steve feels grounded once again. They’ll be fine. They’ve got each other.

“It’s nice of Bruno to drive us today,” Steve says.

“He doesn't mind. And Marco said it was more than fine.” Bucky smiles up at the front seat.

Bruno...is a mountain of a man. Steve’s not sure how he folds himself into the car, but it’s a tight fit. Bruno grunts and shifts in his seat, rocking the car. “Marco has a couple errands for me to take care of for him. You two are on my way.”

The smile drops from Bucky’s face. Apprehensively, he asks, “There won’t be any errands in the trunk later on, will there?”

Bruno barks a rough laugh. “No, kid. The errands will be completely taken care of by the time I pick you two back up.”

“Good to know.” Bucky’s smiles again and looks over to him.

Trunk? Steve mouths to Bucky and gives him his best ‘I am extremely alarmed’ face. Bucky shrugs his shoulders and gives him his ‘it happens sometimes’ face in return.

Steve rests his head back and does what Bucky had suggested in the first place, enjoy the ride. After all, it’s not everyday that they get to travel by car. They cross over into Manhattan and weave through the slower traffic. Bruno is a good driver, and Steve finds himself drifting into a doze.

“We’re here,” Bruno interrupts. He pulls the car over and Steve finally looks back out of the window.

“Are we…?” Steve starts, breathlessly. Because, no, this couldn’t be right. He turns back to Bucky, his face bright with excitement. He nods at Steve.

“You said Central Park.” Steve says accusingly.

“Central Park was the hint. Or, did you want to go back to Brooklyn and walk some of those parks you were talking about instead?”

“You’re a real jerk, Barnes,” he says lovingly. He wishes he could kiss Bucky’s dumb face. Later.

“Happy graduation and birthday, Stevie.”

“An entire day at the MET,” he says excitedly. “Happy birthday to me indeed.”

* * *

Bucky wakes in the early morning light with the feeling that there’s someone else in the room. He sits up quickly and looks over at the other side of the bed. Steve sleeps on peacefully, unaware of the visitor hovering beside him.

She’s thinner now, nearly lost in the fabric of her night clothes, but there’s a rosiness to her otherwise pale complexion. On a living person, if would be beautiful.

“I wanted to see him one last time,” Sarah says. “Can you talk to him for me?”

He’s quiet for a moment, looking into her eyes. He doesn’t want to be the one that tells Steve his ma is dead. It’s not fair to make him be the one to break Steve’s heart wide open when he’s the one that’s gotta help put it back together too. But he will. For this woman, who took in and raised and loved a dead woman’s son, and a heartless woman’s stepson, he’d do anything. Bucky feels tears burning in his eyes. He nods at her and clenches his eyes tight and turns to the side. Steve comes awake under his touch, sitting up in bed.

“Bucky? What’s wrong?” he reaches out and brushes Bucky’s cheek.

“Stevie,” he chokes out. “Your ma is here.”

A frown forms between Steve’s eyebrows. Sarah’s been gone for years now, tucked away in Astoria, healing, they’d hoped in vain as it turns out. Bucky sees it, clocks the exact moment when Bucky’s words make sense. As long as he lives, he’ll never forget that look in Steve’s eyes.

Steve bites at his lips and his hands push at his chest.

“Where…?” he asks, looking out into the room.

“She’s at the side of your bed,” Bucky tells him. “She’s smiling at you.”

“Ma?” Steve says with a sob. He wipes at his face.

“I’m here, Steve,” she says, kneeling down. She reaches out to his face but passes right through him.

“She says she’s here.”

“Oh. Oh, Ma. What am I gonna do without you?”

“My sunshine, you always know what to do,” Sarah says to him.

“She says that you always know the right thing to do. She called you her sunshine.”

Steve closes his eyes and bows his head. Bucky moves closer behind him, feels Steve’s chest heaving with sorrow.

“I love you so much, Steve. Remember, this isn’t the end. You and I will be together again.”

“Stevie,” Bucky whispers, gently brushing his hair, “Stevie, look at me.”

Even in the darkness, Bucky can make out the barest hint of the blue in Steve’s red rimmed eyes. There are tears trailing down his cheek and disappearing into his stubble.

“Your ma, she says to remember that this isn’t the end. That one day you’ll get to see her again. And that she loves you so much.”

Steve cries harder as he relays Sarah’s words. Bucky pulls him closer to him and wraps him in an embrace. He looks up and sees the flicker of Sarah’s image.

“Is she still here?” Steve asks into Bucky’s neck.

“Not for much longer,” Bucky tells him.

There is one thing that he could do for them. He’s never really tried it like this, but they’re worth it. Angry ghosts, his shine can make them real, they feed off of it. He doesn’t tell Sarah. It’ll either work and she’ll know it, or it won’t. But he won’t put Stevie through the disappointment. He presses a kiss to the top of Steve’s head and concentrates on his shine and concentrates on Sarah.

Steve untucks his head and looks back to the side of the bed, stunned at the sight.

Sarah’s image flicks in and out, and Steve can see her.

“I love you, Ma,” he says, “I couldn’t have asked for a better mother. We were made for each other.”

They’re graced with seeing one final beaming smile from Sarah Rogers before her spirit leaves for good. Steve looks around the room, hoping that her image will appear one more time. Bucky pulls Steve to him once again and lays back on the bed, holding him tight.

“She’s gone,” he whispers.

* * *

“That movie, Buck, it was terrible. You took me to a terrible movie.”

“And you wasted so much of your hard earned money on it too,” comes the sarcastic reply.

“It wasted my time, Bucky. That’s almost as bad. Actually, I think it’s even worse. Just think of all the things we could have been doing in that hour we were watching Roy Rogers.” They hadn’t spent any money getting in. Now that he thinks about it, Steve’s not sure if he’s ever paid to get into a movie before. Maybe once or twice with Lenny. But not when he’s been with Bucky. Not even when they’d gone to see The Wizard of Oz. “How much money do you think we owe the theatre anyway, Bucky?”

He looks over at Bucky, who looks elegant in the moonlight with his hair slicked back. He’s wearing one of Steve’s favorite shirts. Bucky says it’s a pale green, but it looks yellow to Steve, and Bucky looks good in yellow. Bucky smirks over at him, “Not as much as we owe the Dodgers.”

“They’ll probably go under now. Probably have to move away to stop losing money on account of us,” Bucky says sadly.

“Sure.” When they were younger, Bucky used to sneak them in by talking to one spirit or another and finding out where there was an open door and a gap in security. Nowadays, Bucky just waves at the attendant and they wave him all the way through. Or, he’ll hand over a couple scraps of paper and they’ll tear it like it’s a ticket. It’s an easy trick, doesn’t really use all that much shine, according to Bucky. It does leave Steve feeling a bit guilty at times, but not enough to turn down a free game. “Where do ya think they’ll move to?”

Bucky taps at his chin thoughtfully. They’re close to home now, just a few blocks off of Kramer’s and what must be the most haunted alleyway in all of Brooklyn, maybe all of New York. “Hmmm...Dodge City, Denver, Dallas, Des Moines…”

“How creative of you.”

“There’s a Brooklyn in Indiana. They could move there and stay the Brooklyn Dodgers. There’s probably a lot of Brooklyn’s...in…” Bucky trails off, his steps slowing to a stop at the alleyway. Steve follows Bucky’s gaze despite knowing that he won’t see anything there. He squints at the alley, nothing looking out of place to him, when he feels Bucky hand wrap around his bicep to pull him away.

“New spirit?” he asks softly as they quicken their pace away from the alley.

“No. That’s not a spirit,” he says after a few moments. “That’s a ghost.”

* * *

“Shhh...it’s ok,” he whispers to Bucky.

Bucky doesn’t hear his words, lost in whatever his shining is showing him, or worse yet, lost wherever his shine may have sent him.

He’d woken to the sound of glass breaking and had the ridiculous thought they were being burgled until he’d seen Bucky standing still as a statue, staring vacantly at the wall. Steve had moved off the bed, careful not to startle Bucky, right before Bucky’s face crumpled into despair.

“It’s ok, Buck. I’m here.” He wipes Bucky’s tear stained cheeks with his thumbs. “Come back to bed with me.”

“There’s ash,” Bucky tells him. “There’s so much ash.”

“Come back to me. Come out of the ash.”

He takes hold of Bucky’s hand but he doesn’t budge.

“I have a bad feeling,” Bucky tells him before allowing himself to be pulled back to their bed. He lets Steve settle him. Steve wraps himself around Bucky and tucks Bucky’s head under Steve’s chin.

“Where’s all the ash coming from?” Bucky whispers.

“I’m not sure, honey. I’m not sure.”

* * *

It’s well before opening and the club is quiet when Bucky arrives in the early afternoon. He lets himself in the front door, waves at Alonzo and Bruno who hardly spare him a glance and makes his way past Nicky, cleaning the glassware at the bar. His footsteps echo through the nearly deserted building. Marco, sitting at his regular table, sifts through papers with a frown until Bucky is nearly upon him. When he looks up, a wide smile replaces the frown.

It’s hard to believe that a little over two years before, Bucky had sat nervously in Marco’s office, trying to find a way to explain that he needed to end their sexual encounters. He’d fumbled his way through the conversation until Marco had finally laughed and put him out of his misery, telling Bucky that he’d always known Bucky would end their affair if he and Steve finally decided to communicate.

Communication, Marco had told him, was the key to a successful relationship. Which Bucky had thought hilarious since Marco doesn’t do relationships. Marco had simply smiled at him and said, yes, because I communicate that I don’t want one and see? Everyone is happy.

Marco continued to send Bucky on his regular routes and other than the lack of sex between them, their relationship had remained unaltered.

“Hey, kid,” Marco says, putting his documents away into his briefcase. The battered brown leather briefcase had been the center of many of Bucky’s teasing because it never leaves Marco’s possession. The joke was that the old leather bag was the third member of their relationship, the most important part of their relationship...the most revered part of their relationship.

The briefcase holds the most delicate documents of Marco’s section of the numbers bank and between turf wars, break ins and the cops Marco’s bosses don’t own, he refuses to take any chances with it. The information that Marco carries may not be enough to bring down the entirety of the Scalzi organization on its own, but it has the potential to damage its reputation and finances.

“Hey, Marco. Something bothering you?”

“Nothing, kid,” Marco says, but then seems to pause, “actually, I know you said you haven’t seen Frankie around, but do you think that maybe you could...do your thing and check for him?”

Frank Scalzi, an absolute waste of a human being in Bucky’s opinion, had disappeared from the city over two weeks ago. Anyone in the city that was aware of the ongoing turf disputes between the smaller crime families were on edge, waiting for the inevitable fighting to spill over onto the streets. Ignacio Scalzi, the head of the Scalzi family, wanted his grandson back alive, or the person responsible dead at his feet.

“I can look for him, but I’ll need something from him. He doesn’t have any shine for me to pick up on.”

“Thanks, kid.” Marco picks up the briefcase and rummages through it. “I’ve got a letter here that he wrote me…”

It doesn’t matter what Marco gives him, Bucky will never find Frank for them. Not because he doesn’t want to, though he doesn’t, but because Bucky can’t find dead people.

And Frank is extremely dead.

He walks close enough to Marco to look over his shoulder when the relative silence of the club is shattered. They hear Alonzo yell “Feds!” from the front of the club and the next he knows, Marco grabs him by the arm. They run towards the back hallway together while pandemonium breaks out.

Behind them, there’s yelling and glass shattering. In front of them, they hear the back door crash open. The sound of more agents stops their forward progress and Bucky makes a quick decision. He turns to Marco so they’re chest to chest looks into Marco’s determined gaze. There’s not enough time for Bucky to explain what he’s got in mind. Alonzo and Bruno held off the agents in front for as long as they could, but there’s still the ones clearing the back rooms.

He hopes that Marco will understand. He grabs the briefcase from his arms and pushes Marco hard to the ground. Marco looks at him from where he’s fallen and hastily Bucky tucks himself into the nearest booth with the briefcase tucked tight to his chest. He closes his eyes, calms himself, and lets his shine drape across him, snug and secure.

He watches the federal agents surround Marco, guns drawn, yelling orders, most of them contradicting one another. Marco, never one inclined towards fighting anyhow, puts his hands up in surrender. They circle him like sharks smelling chum in the water until a more senior agent yells at them to pat him down. A couple brave agents approach Marco, stripping his revolver from his ankle holster.

Leave, leave, leave, leave, Bucky’s mind chants uselessly. Leave, so he can go home and hide out there.

But the feds seem content to set up shop right there in the club, effectively trapping Bucky. He could try to leave, cloaked in his shine. He’s done it before, that’s what makes him such a valued asset for Marco. Running numbers and money around town without being seen was a cinch. It’s far easier to hide from people who aren’t even looking. Problem is, all these agents are looking. They’re looking for anything suspicious, anything out of the ordinary, anything to stand out. Something like Bucky, if he’s not perfect about it. And he can’t afford to be anything less than perfect. He’s got Steve at home waiting for him. So he waits.

They move a chair over and sit Marco down and begin the interrogation right there. They alternate between throwing out menacing threats one moment and in the next, laughing and joking, trying to get him to cooperate with their investigation. If he cooperates...if he rolls on those above him, they can make this easier on him.

Don’t you want to make this easier for yourself? they ask.

Piece by piece they pull Marco’s office apart and bring paperwork out to Marco. Marco makes a big production of every file they unearth but there’s a small smirk playing at his lips and when the agents aren’t looking he glances to Bucky’s booth and gives him a playful wink.

The agents become progressively more frustrated as the afternoon fades into evening and they continue to come up empty handed. As midnight approaches, the long day starts to wear on those that remain. Bucky watches the agents looming over Marco, still trying to look menacing despite the fact that they look drained. Then Bucky notices the first yawn. It’s all over after that. Yawns ripple through the rest of the agents like the wave at Ebbets Field.

Ever so slowly, Bucky inches his way out of the booth. As he’d hoped, the agents milling about nearby have grown complacent enough that he doesn’t so much as catch their gaze. It’s the longest he’s ever had to use his shine for masking his presence and he’s utterly exhausted by the time he can drop it. With the briefcase in hand Bucky makes his way through the darkened streets.

It’s nearly two in the morning when he makes it to their door. He’s only just started to fumble with the locks when the door is ripped open. Steve, the most beautiful person he’s ever laid eyes on, his bright beacon, stands in front of him looking very much like he’d like to murder Bucky.

“I love you,” Bucky blurts out.

“Jesus, get in here, you fool. Before the entire tenement hears you.” Steve grasps his forearm and leads him inside.

“Have you slept?” Bucky asks.

“Of course I haven’t slept,” Steve whispers harshly. “How could I possibly sleep when all I’ve heard about today was the Scalzi family getting busted by the feds. Then you didn’t show up. Have I slept? Of all the idiotic, foolish, moronic, dimwitted, mindless...”

“Steve...I’m so sorry, but can you just write the rest of them down? I’m so tired.”

Steve doesn’t look satisfied by his suggestion but he nods and leads Bucky into their room. Bucky would love nothing more than to just lay down fully clothed, but Steve turns to him and holds out his hand expectantly.

“The briefcase, Buck.”

Bucky looks down to where he’s still got the briefcase clutched to his chest. “Can you put it under the bed?”

Steve raises an eyebrow and Bucky thinks that he might hear the rest of Steve’s list after all, but at the last moment he just shakes his head with a sigh. “Sure, Bucky.”

He hands the briefcase over and watches Steve slide it under the bed before coming back and unbuttoning Bucky’s shirt. He peels it off of Bucky’s shoulders and tosses it to the side before moving onto his trousers. There’s a joke, right there on the tip of his tongue, but he’s just so tired. Every part of him is ready to drop off into sweet oblivion. He steps out of his pants and Steve finally lets him lay down. He feels his consciousness begin to slip as his head touches the pillow but he feels the bed shift when Steve gets in and settles his arms around Bucky.

“You scared me,” Steve whispers into his hair.

“M’sorry, Stevie,” he slurs and then, because the thought just struck him, “Steve…”

“Yeah, Buck?”

“I don’t think I got a job anymore.”

There. He’s said it and now he can feel sleep dragging him under. The last thing he recalls is feeling a soft puff of air in his hair and Steve’s gentle voice. “Yeah, Buck. I think you’re right.”

* * *

There’s been a nervous hum vibrating under his skin all day and he wants nothing to do with it. He’ll know within the next few days what it means after he trawls through the papers.

Probably won’t even have to flip past the front page, he thinks, given the frequency of the vibration.

He goes to Daisy’s and drinks. And drinks. He drinks until he’s more drunk than he’s ever been in his life by the time he staggers out of the bar. The night is cold and there’s a fresh dusting of snow on the sidewalk that wasn’t there when he entered the speakeasy. He uses the wall to hold himself up. He throws up once, ducking into a filthy alley, and then lurches back out again once he’s finished heaving.

He starts undressing right inside the door, leaving a trail of clothes on the way to bed. If Steve were here...well, he wouldn’t have gotten so very drunk if Steve were around. Instead, he’d let Steve fuck him out of his own head if he were around. But Steve had been offered a job in Manhattan, lettering and decorating the windows of some uppity shop. They need the shop to look festive, but don’t want their customers to see Steve working. So Steve is working overnight to make sure the shop windows are perfect in the morning. The silver lining, he supposes, is that if he does wake up screaming, he won’t be worrying Steve. Still, he misses the warmth of Steve beside him.

Turns out he didn’t need to worry about waking up screaming. The booze did its job and Bucky sleeps late. Unfortunately for him, when he does wake up, the buzzing is still there but now dialed up to one hundred percent. He lays on the bed, nearly paralyzed by his own anxiety, waiting for whatever this is to finally be over.

It takes much of the day and he’s a mess of pain and fatigue when it releases him from it’s hold. Once it does, he takes a moment to revel in the calmness of his body before he crawls out of bed and drags his body directly to the bathroom. A moment later, with his toothbrush hanging from his mouth, he hears the front door open and slam shut again.

“Bucky!” Steve shouts from the living room. Bucky groans as pain shoots through his head. He finishes washing up and walks to the living room where Steve stands in the midst of Bucky’s discarded clothes, looking around in confusion.

“Steve?”

Steve’s expression morphs from confusion to alarmed. “Bucky,” Steve looks at him, “Hawaii’s been bombed. We’re at war.”


	8. Chapter 8

“Rogers!”

Steve folds his newspaper, makes his way to the podium, past the room full of men, and watches as the doctor looks over his records. Steve knows all the questions by memory. 

_How’d your father die? How’d your mother die? You got a death wish, kid?_

He stands straight and gives his answers.

 _Mustard gas. Tuberculosis. Not particularly, just want to do my part._

He knows what the doctor is seeing in his file. He’s got a list of ailments that would have put a lot of people in the ground. It’s definitely a list that gets Steve a 4F repeatedly. He’s hoping for that to change today. 

_Come on, Bucky, come on, Bucky_ , he thinks. The doctor frowns down at the file and rubs at his forehead.

He and Bucky had fought about him joining up, of course, because Bucky is bound and determined to keep him safe. But Steve...he just wants to do the right thing. Joining up and doing his part _is_ the right thing. He knows it is. So, he’d reminded Bucky of all the times he’d gone off and used his shining in ways that could have gotten him hurt. He reminds him of a little trip he took to Germany. He reminds him of what he said that night after Alvin had jumped him. Bucky can’t protect him from every bad thing. _But,_ they could go together. 

“Well, looks good, son. Let’s get you back there for your examination.” He stamps the 1A, frowns again, shrugs and closes the file. He hands it over to Steve and waves him past.

“Thank you, Sir.” _Yes._

Steve makes his way to the back room where he sits...again. And waits some more. The next doctor who calls him back doesn’t look up from his clipboard until Steve’s sitting on the examining table.

“File?” He holds his hand out and finally gets a look at Steve. “What the hell?”

“My file, Sir,” Steve says, handing it over. “1A.”

The doctor, a tall greying man, takes the file and flips it open, frowning down at the stamped 1A. “You know it’s a crime to lie on these forms correct?”

“Yes, Sir, I didn’t lie on one single question,” Steve lies.

He flips the file closed again and waves at Steve to follow him, then abruptly stops and shakes his head. He opens the file again and murmurs, “1A, you should be fine, son...” then looks up at Steve and shakes his head, the illusion unraveling. 

“Come with me,” the doctor says. Steve’s heart drops in disappointment when they head to the waiting room.

The two doctors look over his file, arguing bitterly, and to Steve’s embarrassment, loudly, over how he had ended up with a 1A stamped on his enlistment paperwork. Steve can see the effect of Bucky trying to work his abilities on the two men as they alternate between anger and confusion. The one and only thing the two doctors can agree on is, of course, that Steve is most certainly not a 1A.

Dejected, Steve makes his way out of the building and finds Bucky waiting for him, picking at wood of the overturned crate he’s been sitting on.

“Sorry, Steve,” Bucky says sympathetically. “I’m not as good at that as I used to be. And I was never really good at persuasion anyhow.”

“It’s ok. It’s further than we’ve gotten before.”

Bucky nods in agreement just before his face breaks into a brilliant smile. “That’s true. So, where are we trying next?” 

* * *

“Johann,” Arnim calls out to little avail. Johann continues to stare at the vivid blue of the Tesseract. _Who has captured who_ , he thinks. 

“Johann,” he tries again, louder.

Johann looks away from the cube and Arnim suppresses a flinch at the drooping mask. That prototype lasted longer than the last, but still, only forty-eight hours. He’ll have to try again. 

“Yes, Arnim,” Johann slurs, trying to keep the mask in place. 

“In the village, in Tønsberg, there is a young man,” Arnim starts. 

“A snack already, Arnim? We were only just at the camps,” Johann teases and then huffs in frustration at the mask.

“Stop pulling at it, Johann, it is only making it worse.” Johann drops his hands. “I have a new one with me.”

Arnim opens his bag and pulls out a fresh face for Johann and watches the old one pull apart in Johann’s hands before he pulls the replacement on. “Ah, much better. So, you want to go see this little glittering Norwegian.” 

“You noticed him too?” Arnim asks, though, of course Johann would have noticed. That is where his greatest talent lies, no doubt. “He’s too old.”

“No, not that, Johann. He...he’s got a shine, yes. But, he’s...not exactly like me, not a pusher. But more of an implanter.” Oh, the things that they could do.

“You want him,” Johann states, pondering. He watches the mask, the eyebrows come together. The forehead wrinkles. The eyes narrow. “It has been a while since we’ve inducted Vasily. We’d have to get everyone together.”

“It will be worth it,” Arnim insists. The things they will do. They will be unstoppable. “ _I_ _want him.”_

“Then you shall have him, my oldest friend,” Johann tells him.

He smiles at Johann and looks towards the village with one person on his mind.

 _Aleksander_

* * *

It’s June when Bucky convinces Steve to take a break from trying to elist. At first he outright refuses, indignant and resentful that Bucky would even suggest it. His body feels impatient with the need to help and to do his part. He’s got to do it _now now now_. How could Bucky suggest a break? 

But Bucky stays calm in the face of Steve’s outrage, explaining to Steve that the draft boards are keeping an eye out for him. They’ve hit too many over the last year and they need to give it a break. Let the docs rotate out and when there’s a fresh crop of them, they’ll try again. And if that still doesn’t work, Bucky is convinced there’s another way to get Steve in. It’s his sincerity that soothes Steve’s anger and acts as a balm to his frayed and frustrated nerves. So he takes Bucky’s advice, takes a break, and focuses on the things he’s allowed to do. 

They roll into July, watching more and more men from their neighborhood pulled into the war. His birthday falls on a Saturday and Bucky takes him out dancing. Bucky demands to do Steve’s hair and slicks back his hair using his Brilliantine. Steve sits still and enjoys the look of pure concentration that comes over Bucky’s face as he styles Steve’s hair. Once it’s to Bucky’s standards, he’s handed an outfit and told to get dressed.

“What are these?” Steve asks him, eyeing the unfamiliar clothing.

“Happy birthday. Now go get dressed.” 

“Can we afford these?” he asks suspiciously. Money has gotten a little better, but new clothes are still luxury items for them. “Did you steal them?”

Bucky frowns at him from where he's combing his own hair. “Steve, I would never.”

Steve doesn’t drop his stare, challenging Bucky to lie.

“I didn’t!” Bucky laughs. “I promise, Stevie.”

Steve relents and puts the shirt on, steps into the trousers and pulls up the suspenders. “They fit nice.”

“I got your measurements all up here.” Bucky taps the side of his head. “I even cuffed the pants.”

He looks down at the trousers and the cuffed legs appreciatively. “Thanks.”

“You look amazing. I knew that shirt would look good on you.”

Bucky kisses him, careful not to disturb their hair, before they head out into the evening. The city is busy with celebration, even with the lack of fireworks. The streets bustle with families. Kids run the streets and sidewalks. 

“Remember when your ma and my pa let us watch fireworks from the hospital roof?” Bucky asks.

“And you snuck Becca out of the house? I remember Millie hitting the roof. I thought you were a goner.” Bucky had spent a week solid at his place back then. It was one of the few times that Millie was justified in her anger.

“Becca will be eighteen soon,” Bucky says, his voice low.

“Hard to believe.” 

“Wonder if she’s still got a crush on you,” Bucky teases.

“I hope not. That would be an uncomfortable conversation.”

Steve tries to imagine an older Becca, grown into a woman. Her crush on Steve had faded by the time George had been killed and Millie took off with her and Annie in tow. But Bucky likes to tease him about it still. He suspects it’s a safe way for Bucky to talk about his sisters without the weight of them leaving or the death of his father being brought up. 

They wind their way through the narrow alleyways by the docks and before stopping in front of a familiar door. In the years since the club had been seized along with the other Scalzi family’s assets, it has sat empty. Or, Steve thought it was empty. Tonight, he can hear the sound of music and patrons from inside. He taps his finger against the door, where painted in large block lettering is a warning of ‘Members Only’.

“I’ve got it covered,” Bucky says smiling. He reaches out and knocks at the door.

Music spills out of the club when a large familiar man opens the door for them. He smiles at Bucky and picks him up in a bone crushing hug. Bucky hugs him back and then demands to be put back down.

“Hi, Bruno,” Steve says sticking his hand out. He watches his hand disappear into Bruno’s and gets a very firm handshake. He shakes out his hand once he’s been released and takes a look around. 

The club doesn’t look all that different from the one and only time Steve had been inside before tonight. He remembers that night, the night he and Bucky had shared their first kisses, tucked away down a dark hallway in Marco’s office.

What a night.

Bucky takes his hand and leads him into the heart of the club where there’s an empty table with a ‘Reserved’ sign on it.

“For us?” he asks Bucky.

“For you,” a familiar voice comes from behind him. “Happy birthday, Steve.”

Steve turns, “Marco?”

Bucky’s ex-fling gestures for them to take their seats. “Nice to see you again, Steve. I’m so glad you and James were able to make it in tonight. Let Manny know what you’d like. It’s on the house.”

“Really?” Steve asks skeptically at the same time that Bucky gives an enthusiastic, “thank you, Marco.”

“No problem, boys. I’ll let you enjoy your evening,” Marco laughs as he leaves the table.

Steve watches him go before turning back to Bucky. “Marco’s back?”

“Don’t be angry. I only found out last week and I wanted tonight to be a surprise.”

“I think I’m more surprised than angry. I thought he went to prison.” Steve had quickly gotten over his jealousy of Marco once he and Bucky had started dating. Jealousy, Bucky reminded him, was not something that they could afford. And besides that, Steve and Lenny had remained friends, it would have been hypocritical of him to demand that Bucky stop interacting with Marco.

“Just over two years. They never had a lot to charge him with, considering…” 

“Considering you had all the incriminating evidence hidden away. I suppose he owes you.”

“He might be what you’d consider, grateful.” 

The drinks flow for the rest of the evening. Each time they come back from the dance floor it’s to fresh drinks. And it’s some real good top shelf liquor, not the watered down booze they usually get their hands on. By the time they make it home, drunker than they’ve been in years, Steve’s finding it nearly impossible to keep his hands off of Bucky. It’s moments like these, when he’s got Bucky half undressed inside their front door, that he’s relieved that his ma isn’t hanging around. He’s not sure he would have ever been able to have sex without having Bucky give the all clear if his ma hadn’t gone on to the Beyond.

From his knees, Steve glides his hands up and down Bucky’s flexing thighs and licks at the head of his cock. 

_Jesus, Stevie_ , Bucky whispers out, burying his fingers in Steve’s hair and guiding his cock further into his mouth. Steve moans at the stretch of his lips and the fullness he feels and he loves it. Any other night he’d be content to let Bucky follow the mantra running through Steve’s brain _fuckmymouthfuckmymouth_. And Bucky would. He’d use Steve’s mouth until he was right on the edge and then tap at Steve’s cheek to look at him before pushing in one last time and coming. 

But it’s his birthday and he wants Bucky to come with Steve buried inside him. So he snakes one hand up and squeezes the base of Bucky’s cock harder than necessary just to hear him whine before he pulls his mouth away with a teasing lick.

“Gonna fuck you tonight,” Steve tells him.

Bucky looks down at him, his cock giving an interested twitch in Steve’s hand. Bucky gives him a look of exaggerated hardship like Steve doesn’t know how much he loves getting fucked. 

“Far be it for me to deny you anything on your birthday,” Bucky tells him.

They make quick work of disrobing one another on the way to the bedroom. Steve drapes himself across Bucky and peppers his neck and chest with kisses while he works his fingers inside of Bucky, who moans and whimpers softly. 

Later, when Steve fucks into him, he keeps one hand clasped over Bucky’s mouth to muffle the sound of his pleasure. Steve sucks hickies into Bucky’s collarbone and neck to keep himself quiet. He’s close to coming and he picks up the rhythm of his thrusts. Bucky’s pliant underneath him, hips and legs roll loosely to accommodate whatever pace or force Steve wants. He wraps his free hand over Bucky’s cock, which puts more force down on the hand covering Bucky’s mouth, which makes Bucky moan harder. 

“Gonna come, sweetheart,” he whispers into Bucky’s ear. “You’re the best present of all. So beautiful. Just a perfect hole for me to use up.”

Bucky’s head nods under Steve’s hand along with a muffled affirmation. He feels Bucky’s hands grab at Steve’s hips and ass to urge him closer. He accommodates the greedy request with a roll of his hips and then sets to making good on his word. It doesn’t take long for the overwhelming pleasure of his orgasm to rock through him. He works Bucky’s cock in his fist, grinding into him and chasing the tail end of ecstasy when he feels Bucky’s orgasm hit him, first in the tightening around his own cock and then in the hot release coating his fingers. 

He gives the cock in his hand a few more strokes before Bucky huffs out an annoyed moan into Steve’s palm. 

“Alright, alright,” Steve says, taking his hand away from Bucky’s mouth and pulling out. “Come on, we need a clean up and then we can pass out.”

Clean up is a well practiced routine for them and it doesn’t take long until they’re back in bed, clean, satiated, and, in Steve’s case, still a lot drunk. The room is hot, but Bucky is curled up around him at his back, absently running his fingers up and down arm. 

“Happy birthday, Stevie,” he whispers into Steve’s hair. “I love you.”

Steve’s heart gives a happy twist at the words. “Thanks, Buck. I love you too.” 

* * *

A few weeks after his birthday, Steve carefully maneuvers up the last two steps to the apartment, trying not to drop his purchases. Inside, he finds Bucky at the fire escape, lost in thought once again. There’s a cigarette burning to ash between his fingers. He drops his bag to the floor, startling Bucky, bringing his attention to Steve. He looks down to the small bouquet in Steve’s hand and smiles. 

“Those for your ma?” Bucky asks.

“They’re for you,” Steve tells him, steps closer to Bucky. They don’t usually do this, buy each other flowers. Spending money on something that’s bound for the bin isn’t very frugal. But looking at Bucky’s face soften, he knows he made the right choice. 

Then Bucky’s eyebrows raise and he smiles slyly at Steve. “You like me or something, Stevie Rogers?”

“God, not anymore.” He pulls the flowers back. “I’ll just go find a fella who appreciates the finer things.”

Bucky calls him a no good dirty trickster, and then looks at him. “I am the finest thing in your life, Rogers and don’t you forget it. Now, give me my flowers.”

Steve contemplates tossing them at Bucky’s haughty face, but in the end he relents and hands the flowers over. He’s right, after all. Bucky is the finest thing in his life.

“Thanks, Steve,” Bucky tells him, smelling the flowers. 

“You’ve been bad-tempered the last couple days. Is something going on?” Is something going to happen, he wants to ask. Has something already happened, he fears. 

Bucky walks past him to their dresser and pulls out a slip of paper. He doesn’t look up as he hands him the small piece of paper. Steve feels like he’s been kicked in the stomach. He doesn’t even have to look to know what it is. 

“Sorry, Steve.”

He looks down at the postcard, ordering James Buchanan Barnes to report for his physical examination. “You’ve got a week.”

“I know,” Bucky says sullenly. 

“Well, we tried right?” They’d so wanted to do this together, been so sure that they’d find a way to work this. 

Bucky steps closer to him and gently takes the notice from Steve’s loose grasp and pockets it. He wraps Steve in his arms and Steve leans his head on Bucky’s chest. The flowers tickle the back of his neck.

“It’s not over yet. I know it, Steve, I _know it_. We’ll meet up later. I don’t know how, but we will.”

Bucky’s assessment comes back as a 1A, not surprisingly, and two weeks later, on a foggy morning, Steve stands and watches his bus pull away from the curb. When the bus has turned the corner and is out of sight he makes the walk back to their apartment in a daze. Laying in their bed and smelling their bedsheets, it hits him that this is the first time they’ve really ever been apart physically. There was Lenny and there was Marco and there were Steve’s numerous hospital stays, but they were _always_ orbiting one another.

He hates his new normal. He takes himself to work and then takes himself back to their empty apartment. He touches Bucky’s shirts, lays on Bucky’s pillow. He reads through the few books Bucky has accumulated over the years. He’s desperately and painfully lonely. 

July turns to August and Steve gets a Western Union from Bucky telling him that he’s wired most of his pay to Steve. They’d discussed it before Bucky had left and Steve had tried to brush it off only for Bucky to become irate with him. “Are we not in a relationship? Is this not what couples do?” Bucky had asked him. Steve had capitulated; of course they were in a relationship, of course this is what couples do.

He pays rent. He pays their other bills and hopes that Bucky has enough for whatever he needs out there.

“I see you haven’t been evicted, so you must have picked up the money,” Steve hears from the other side of the bed and bolts upright. 

“Bucky...oh god, your hair.”

Bucky rubs a hand over his short buzzed hair. “Yeah, they don’t give you much of a choice when you first get here.”

“It’s like the lice haircut we all had to get back in seventh grade.”

“Same principle, I think.” He looks over at Steve.

“Why are you in your uniform so late?”

“Fire guard.” Bucky rolls his eyes. “Hey, you look like garbage. You’re not getting sick, are you?”

“I’m not sick,” he says, laying back down. “I miss you. It’s hard to sleep alone.”

“Aww, Steve, I miss you too,” Bucky says to him. “Cherish this time alone. Because when we get you in? You’re going to have to share a bay with a bunch of disgusting men from all over the place.”

Steve laughs, feeling his spirits lift for the first time since Bucky’s bus left him behind. “Alright, point taken. I love you, jerk.”

“I love you too, punk. Get some rest.” A moment later Bucky vanishes and Steve gets the best night of sleep in weeks.

* * *

It’s a long way from Brooklyn to Shelbyville.

The memories of making the trip with his grandma have long faded from his memory, and those are the only memories he had, having never returned to see his mother’s people or his sisters. 

His sisters.

He needs to see them one more time before he ships out. He’s got his orders in his bag and a limited amount of time counting down that he’d like to spend mostly with Steve. Yet, the compulsion to see them now is stronger than it has ever been. 

Convincing headquarters to cut his travel orders to go to Shelbyville _and then_ to Brooklyn hadn’t even been too difficult with his shining. Oh, he’d get the Steve Rogers big old look of disapproval if Steve knew just how often he threw shine around during training without him there for backup. But here’s the thing…

The United States? It’s drafting, training, mobilizing and deploying _a lot_ of men from all around the country. And many of these men are very stupid. Stupid men that he potentially will have to rely on in life and death situations. If he happens to use his shine to look at what’s rattling around in the brain box, he feels pretty justified. 

So getting back to Brooklyn by way of Shelbyville? Easy.

The bus ride takes a day and a half and the sun is only just starting to rise when they roll into Shelbyville. When he steps off of the bus, steam is already rolling off of the asphalt in waves. He’s got no desire to walk out to the farmhouse, but he will if he needs to. He talks to the bus station attendant first, to make certain he’s actually going to the right place...who knows what’s happened in the last ten years. Then he tries his luck. Turns out it’s just a matter of sticking his thumb up. He’s still in his uniform, which tends to help get him what he needs and where he needs to go.

The man lets him ride next to him in the passenger seat, sending his son to ride it out in the truck bed.

“You calling on one of the Barnes’ gals? Must be Becca if so, you’re too old for Annie. Good luck, if so, that girl’s got a wild streak a mile wide and a plain old mean mouth on her if you say the wrong thing.” 

Bucky soaks up the information. The old man doesn’t seem put off by Becca’s description. If anything he seems entertained by it. 

“I’m not calling on either one. They’re my sisters.”

It’s a good thing they’re on a deserted country road because the man jerks the wheel so hard Bucky worries for the kid in the back.

“You’re Winifred’s boy?” he asks, letting the truck roll to a stop before putting it into park and taking a look at him.

“I am.”

The man inspects him carefully. “My, I do see it now. Winnie was my sister-in-law.”

“Oh,” Bucky...hadn't really considered his ma’s family. He doesn’t have any memories of the man sitting next to him. He doesn’t know what kind of relationship his pa had with them. 

The man, his uncle, must sense this. “I wish we would have stayed closer with your pa. Your aunt, she’s always felt guilty about not trying to look for ya. You know, once Mildred moved back with the girls.”

Bucky nods his head. That would have been nice. Not that he would have rather lived out here instead of with Steve and Sarah. Not in a million years. But just knowing he had a family who wanted him, that would have been nice. 

“It’s not your place,” his uncle continues, “to make your aunt and I feel better. We shoulda done better. But if you don’t have a place to stay tonight, after visiting with your sisters, we’d have you out at the farm for supper and to stay the night. You could go see your Ma’s grave.”

Bucky, as it turns out, does _not_ have a plan for where he'll stay the night. He doesn’t want to stay under the same roof as Millie, and he’s sure the feeling is mutual. He figured he’d just rough it somewhere closer to the bus station until it was time to leave. Having a roof over his head is an unexpected turn of luck in his favor. And, it would be nice to see his Ma’s grave. 

“That sounds nice,” Bucky says.

His uncle smiles and gets the truck going again. “Great. I’ll let Elenore know. I’ll come get you later today. Give you some time with the girls.”

“Thank you,” Bucky says and then points a thumb at the back of the truck, “so that would be my…”

“That’s your cousin, Tobias. You’ve quite a few more on your ma’s side. Your aunt and I had six of our own. Tobias is the youngest of them. He’s a daydreamer, that one. Hates farming. Wants nothing more than to get out of here. He’ll probably ask you all sorts of questions about New York over supper.”

By the time they make it down the long dirt drive of the farmhouse, Bucky has learned the names of his other cousins. Martha, Lillian, and Ruby are all married and have started families of their own. Then there’s Norman and Bernard, both only a few years older than Bucky. They were both drafted last year. Norman was deployed to the Pacific, Bernard to North Africa. 

Bucky sits nervously in the truck as the dirt settles around them.

“They’re not expecting you, are they?” his uncle asks.

Bucky shakes his head. “I haven’t seen them in ten years, but I wanted to, one more time before I....”

“You don’t have to explain it, Bucky. I’ve been to war too. It’s good that you made the trip, for you _and_ for them.”

Everything will be fine, he tells himself before forcing himself out of the truck. Tobias scurries eagerly back into the truck, not sparing Bucky a single glance. He leaves his larger duffle for later, but grabs his smaller bag and waves at his uncle as they pull back down the road. He fits his hat back onto his head and walks the rest of the hundred feet to the farmhouse. 

There’s no answer at the front door when he knocks against the screened door. His quick call of hello into the house goes unanswered as well so he drops his bag to the side and starts his search around back. His memories of this place are worn down from years of inattention, like all he has is the outline and the details that haven’t faded. He knows the shape of the house, where the barn is...he can just barely remember playing out back. 

He remembers there being a lot of people here at the farm. Millie’s family had a lot of money when he was little and that meant hired hands coming and going to help with the day to day business. Money meant the constant buzz of equipment moving. It’s the little things that show how the depression has taken its toll on the farm. The silence, the chipped paint, unrepaired fences, fields sold or gone to hay instead of seed. Any money that the household could pull in, went to necessities. 

He stops at the corner of the wrap-around and leans over the railing to look out over the back field. The laundry line is up and the garden looks like it’s come in nicely. Beside that, a field of corn, barely knee high stretches off in the distance. 

“Ain’t no one here,” a bored voice comes from down the porch. She’s sitting up against the house with a book against her knees. He knows that book. He’s got the same one back home. It’s one of his most treasured possessions. The girl continues, not looking up from her book. “You’ll have to come by later if you want to talk to anyone.”

“I read that book to you.” He feels a little breathless, because it’s _Annie_ . It’s Annie from the picture. Bigger of course, so much bigger, but it’s her. Light brown hair, and when she looks up, he sees her delicate brow and the nose the three of them share. She frowns at him for a moment before getting up and approaching him. She’s tall. Even barefooted she’s only about four inches shorter than him. She looks into his eyes and it _is_ Annie. Becca’s eyes are a dark hazel, nearly brown, but Annie’s eyes were closer to Bucky’s own blue.

“You were six and you’d sit on my lap and -”

“Turn the pages for you,” Annie finishes.

He nods.

“Bucky?” she whispers. He nods again and she flings herself into his arms. “Bucky. You’re here. I can’t believe you’re here. We’ve missed you so much.”

“I’ve missed you too. God I’ve missed you both so much. Look how big you are!”

“Me? You’re a full grown man. You have _stubble,_ ” she says rubbing at his cheeks. “Oh, we’ve gotta go get Becca!”

“Is she here? I was hoping, but I wasn’t sure if she got married or…”

Annie cackles in delight. “Married! Mama _wishes_. I think Becca’s insulted every available man in the state. She doesn’t want to get married and risk being trapped here.”

That does sound like Becca. She’d always turned her nose up at pretend marriages. Of the two of them, Annie was always more of the romantic out of the two girls, begging to hear the love stories over the action and adventure. But little girls grow into women, and desires change. 

Annie takes his hand and pulls him off the porch and guides him through the back field, past the barn. They walk until they reach the copse of trees behind the house. He smiles at the tire swing hanging from one of the sturdier oaks and is overcome with the sudden and clear memory of his father pushing him. 

_Higherhigherhigher,_ he’d shrieked, holding as tightly as his little arms could manage. 

The memory fades and in its place, a woman sitting atop the tire, gently swaying. She’s lost in thought, whatever papers she’s got in hand distraction enough that she doesn’t notice them coming. 

“Becca,” Annie says impatiently.

“What,” Becca says without giving her sister even a cursory glance.

Annie throws him a mischievous smile and sighs dramatically at her sister. Oh boy. “Do you think we’ll _ever_ see Bucky again?”

Becca sighs and frowns before dropping the papers to her lap. She lays her head against the rope and looks out over the green fields. “I hope so. Next year...we can go to Brooklyn and try to find him. I’ll save enough money for the both of us.”

“That’s going to be a _long_ trip for you,” Annie says with a frown, “but, back to our brother. What _exactly_ would you say to him if he were here?”

“I suppose...I’d tell him I missed him. That our mother is a monstrous woman and we’ve made sure that she knows how much we hated her choice. I’d want to know if he got married or had kids. _And then_ I’d ask about all those things he could do. Do you remember…?”

Becca looks away from the crops and to Annie. He tries to keep his own face calm and unthreatening while she frowns at the sight of him. Annie is rocking back and forth excitedly, but Bucky knows Becca is still connecting the clues. The tire swings to the side when she slides off. 

Bucky watches the shift from confusion to recognition. Unlike Annie, with her gleeful excitement, Becca looks like she’s grieving what they’ve lost in the past decade. She wipes at her mouth absently and then at the tears rolling on her cheeks. But she doesn’t look away from him.

“I would tell him,” she says choking up on her words, “I would tell him that I think about him every day and hope that he’s safe and loved. I would tell him that on his birthday, we read some of _Little House in the Big Woods_ because it was the last book he read to us. I would tell him...I would tell him that I have dreamed for ten years that we would find our way back to each other.”

Bucky feels the weight of her heartache, a perfect counterbalance to his own. That day, ten years ago, they hadn’t only lost their father, they’d lost each other as well. Even if they hadn’t known it right away. Bucky feels his own tears fall. “I’m sorry it took me so long. I should have come sooner.”

“You’re here now, that’s what matters,” she tells him. She’s so close now, only a foot separating them instead of half a country and years. “Bucky...can I cry on your uniform?”

He laughs through his tears, “Yeah, Becca, you can cry on my uniform.”

She takes another step and buries her face into his chest. He rubs her back in comforting circles as they cry. He closes his eyes and rests his cheek against her dark brown hair and then startles when he feels another set of arms around them. He puts his head back down, but drops an arm so Annie fits herself into their huddle. 

His little family, only thing missing is his Steve. 

“You look like Pa,” Becca says into his chest. 

“So do you.” She’s got more of her looks from George Barnes than Mildred Barnes. Her eyes aren’t quite as dark, but close. Both he and Annie got their light eyes from their mom. “Except Annie got his height.” 

Becca groans with annoyance. “As if one could forget.”

“If I have to look like my mother, at the very least I can be a taller and more elegant version of her,” Annie says loftily.

“Yes, you are very elegant with your dirty bare feet.” Becca points down at Annie’s feet.

“I clean up just fine, thank you.”

“I’m sure you do, Raggedy Ann,” he jokes at her.

“Hey! I loved my Raggedy Ann doll. Pa gave her to me.” She levels him with a scowl. He pulls her closer and kisses the top of her head.

“I know you do,” he tells her seriously. He only has a few things from his father, the ones that Becca was able to smuggle to him before the move. There’s a cherished photo of his mother and father. His mother, full of laughter and life in a way he never knew her. The woman in that photo, could never fully transverse the Beyond to him.

“Bucky, can you stay for lunch?” Becca leans back. 

“I would _love_ lunch. I’m starving.” The Army’s trained his body to expect three meals a day at regular intervals and he'd missed breakfast.

As soon as he releases them from his embrace, he misses them fiercely, but they flank him on each side and link their elbows with him, apparently not ready to let him go either. They make the short trip back to the house in silence and let themselves in through the back door. The familiarity of the kitchen is disorienting. They had been a family here once too. He’d really talked to his mother upstairs in this very house. His Grandma Catina had been here. 

“Are you ok, Bucky?” Annie asks, taking his hand. Becca looks over from making sandwiches with concern.

“It’s strange being back here. I don’t have many memories, but it feels familiar.”

Becca finishes preparing lunch and Bucky endures being interrogated over a turkey sandwich. Did he finish school? _Yes._ Did he go to college? _No._ Did he move in right away with the Rogers? _Yes._ How is Mrs. Rogers? 

The girls put down their food while Bucky tells them about Sarah. How she fought for three years, but in the end couldn’t shake it. He tells them that she treated him like a son and that he loved her like a mother.

“You were lucky to have her,” Becca says and Bucky agrees. For all his misfortune, he was and remains tremendously lucky for having had Sarah Rogers and her son in his life. “Is Steve still in Brooklyn?”

It takes longer to talk about Steve. Telling their story while tiptoeing around their relationship is hard, but their relationship is dangerous and family doesn’t guarantee understanding or protection. 

“I had a crush on him, you know,” Becca says with a smile.

“Did you? I might remember that,” he teases her.

Then he asks them questions about their life. They talk about their time on the farm openly and honestly. They tell him about the life insurance policy and the settlement money and how their mother had planned to hoard it all. 

“That’s when we really began our campaign against mother,” Annie tells him. “We asked how much money she was planning to send to you and Sarah and she said nothing. Can you believe it? _Nothing!_ So we told her...Becca and I...we told her that if she didn’t send you money, we’d tell the _entire_ town what she’d done. We even went with her to watch her wire the money and write the letter.”

“Millie must have been so angry.”

“It was worth it,” Becca says.

“Thank you for that. It was a lot, and it really helped. And for the photo. I looked at it everyday up until I left for training. It helped, feeling like I had you two close. Would it be alright, if I wrote you two after I ship out? I don’t want to make matters worse with your mother, but, I don’t want to lose you two again.”

His sisters look to each other apprehensively and he feels fear seize him at the thought of this being the last time he gets to see them. Becca pulls out the papers that she’d been looking at earlier and slides them across the table. 

He reads the letter on top once and then reads it again. 

“Becca. Wow.” He smiles up at her, reading through the acceptance letter again. “This is incredible. When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow,” Becca says softly.

So close to missing her. One day later and he would have lost his opportunity. “I am so thankful I took the earlier bus. How is your mother handling it? She can’t be happy about you leaving.” Becca and Annie share another look. _Suspicious, unless.._. “Millie doesn’t know.”

“Mama wants us to marry. She thinks that continuing our education is ‘impractical’,” Annie tells him.

“If I told her, she’d never let me go. I had to set up a secret mailing address in Indianapolis. I’ve saved up all the money for the bus ticket. I just, Bucky I can’t stay here. And next year, when Annie graduates, she’s going to come out too.”

He takes hold of her hand, “Of course you have to go. You’re so amazing...you both are. Pa would be so proud of you two.” 

“I can give you the address of where I’m staying. You can write to me there. You’d _better_ write to me. I want to know that you’re alright.” Becca squeezes his hand.

“And me too,” Annie says, grabbing hold of their hands. “I’m going to miss you both.”

“One more year of school. Then you’ll come out to stay with me,” Becca tells her. 

Annie nods her head and looks to him, “And when the war is over, you and Steve can come visit us.”

“We’d love that. It’s a plan.” He’s not naïve enough to think that he’s guaranteed to come back from the war. But he hopes, as much as he’s hoped for anything in his life, that he and Steve get to make this trip.

They spend the rest of the afternoon swapping stories until Annie goes to finish her chores before the rest of the family gets home from the back fifty acres. Then it’s just him and Becca. He sits on her bed while she packs her bag for tomorrow, deciding what she has room for, and what she’ll need to leave behind. 

“Before, when you didn’t know I was here, you said you wanted to know about the things I could do.” 

“You don’t have to tell me. I want to know, but I’m just being nosey.”

“It’s alright.” He pauses, trying to think of the best way to start it. “I guess it makes sense to start right here, in Shelbyville. Grandma Catina, she called it the shining.”

He tells her about seeing his ma as a spirit here at the farmhouse. Grandma Catina had insisted that they move to Brooklyn with her so that she could help him with his shining. He tells her about finding lost items and moving things with his mind...that’s how he’d accidentally hurt her and Annie when they were little.

“I remember that!” Becca tells him. “God, I thought I’d been imagining it this entire time. Can you still do it?”

“No, there’s a lot more I could do as a kid that I can’t do now, or not as well. That seems to be the way of it.”

He tells her about seeing other spirits and being able to tell if someone was dying. He doesn’t tell her about the ghost outside their grandmother’s apartment...she doesn’t need those thoughts.

“I can hide really well too, in plain sight.”

“You cheat.” She scowls at him. “You always won at hide and seek. You should use that...when you’re overseas. Maybe it’ll help.”

“Maybe,” he tells her. He leaves out the visiting and the mind reading and the persuasion. When, or if he makes it back, he’ll consider telling her. 

“So...you and Steve. Still live together.” 

“We do.”

“No one gives you trouble about it?” she asks.

“Our neighbors don’t care. The landlord doesn’t care unless he doesn’t get paid. And my work is pretty irregular, so I don’t have co-workers that make a fuss.” He pauses, then decides to go for it. He should know where she stands on his relationship sooner rather than later, he supposes. “And we’re careful, Becca. There’s a lot we can’t do but there are places we can go and we’re careful about it.”

“I wish you didn’t have to be so careful.”

“Me too.”

“I suppose it was good that you were in Brooklyn and had Steve. If you were here...it would have been a lot more difficult, I think. Difficult to find someone, difficult to make it work. It’s a lot harder to hide, if say, you happen to not want to marry a man.”

He thinks back to his uncle’s words, _a wild streak a mile wide and a plain old mean mouth_ , and Annie’s comment later. “That does sound really difficult. It’s probably easier to just make sure that men don’t want to come around.”

“Yes,” she answers. “Yes, that does make it easier.”

He gets up from the bed and crosses over to her and wraps her in his arms. “You deserve happiness, Becca. I hope you find it, wherever you go.”

“It’s nice to know that I’m not alone.”

“Never. You’re never alone, Becca.” 

“Thanks, Bucky.”

“Bucky!” Annie yells from downstairs. “Your uncle’s coming up the drive and the others are coming in from the back fifty.”

“Oh damn,” Becca says, “I was meant to get supper started.”

“I’ve got supper started Becca!” Annie yells again.

“Thank you!” Becca calls back. “We should get you downstairs and out.”

“Good plan,” he tells her. He’s all for minimizing his interaction with Millie.

They meet Annie out on the front porch. She’s got his bag in her hand. Tucked away inside is Becca’s new address and some new photos of his sisters. From where they stand, they can see dirt clouds being kicked up from both his uncle’s truck and the truck carrying his step-mother and family. 

His sisters, sensing that the end of their reunion has come, hug him firmly.

“Be safe, Becca,” he whispers.

“You too.” 

“I’ll miss you. I’ll miss you both,” Annie tells them. “I know you’ve both gotta go, but I’ll miss you two so much. Mama’s going to be so angry.” 

“Hey, you let her blame me. You can tell her I gave Becca the money, if that helps. You can tell her that I encouraged her. After today, I’ll never have reason to see Millie again, but you still have an entire year with her. Do what you need to do to protect yourself. She can never hurt me again.”

Annie nods and gives him one last squeeze before she releases him. Becca does the same just before both of the trucks park. His uncle climbs out of the truck and Bucky suddenly remembers one last important question.

“I have one more important question for you,” he asks quietly, looking to his sisters. “What is my uncle's name?”

“You, Bucky Barnes, are a disaster,” Becca tells him.

“It’s Clive,” Annie tells him through her giggles.

“ _Clive_ . Thank you Annie, my _favorite_ sister.” 

He gives her one last kiss on the cheek, grabs his bag off of the porch and heads down the steps. His uncle Clive waits at the truck with Tobias already climbing into the back. Out of the second truck three men and a woman climb out. The men he doesn’t recognize, but the woman...well ten years has done it’s work on both of them. She still looks and holds herself gracefully. She had been born into money, grown accustomed to looking down on those around her and that doesn’t appear to have changed. 

They approach each other with confident strides, but Bucky knows that for once, he’s got the upper hand. Like earlier with his sisters, Millie doesn’t know who he is yet. They stop a foot apart. He looks at his step-mother, who always treated him like an outsider, who somedays could barely stand to look at him, who refused to let Bucky place a crown of flowers on his father’s casket, who abandoned him when she could have protected him, and he feels nothing. He ended up right where he belonged, with Sarah and Steve. The only sadness he feels now is for his sisters but they’ll be away from her soon enough.

Millie frowns at him, perhaps starting to feel the edges of familiarity. He can see her trying to figure out what to say and finds that he simply does not wish to hear it. He sidesteps her and takes a step so they’re side by side.

He looks down into her blue eyes, “I hope you enjoy the life you created for yourself, Millie.”

Her frown deepens, but he’s finished here. He walks the rest of the way to his uncle’s truck, nods at him and climbs in. He doesn’t look at her as they drive away. 

His aunt Elenore cries when she sees him. It’s sweet, if not a little awkward, but he can appreciate that his emotions are not the only ones going through the wringer today. He gets treated to all three of his girl cousins, their spouses and their children. The kids run wild while he undergoes yet another round of questioning for the day. This time he comes up with creative lies to cover for his single status. It’s Tobias who saves him from offers to set him up with someone from town, by asking him what his favorite part of Brooklyn is. He has a momentary and irrational urge to tell him Steve’s dick, but comes to his senses fairly quick. 

It’s a long day and he’s more eager than ever to get home to Steve. 

His aunt puts him in the spare room, which she informs him both used to be his mother’s and is the room he was born in. He’s not sure exactly what to say to that so he thanks her and closes the door to change from his uniform. 

His mother’s grave isn’t too far from the house. The marker itself is simple, the grass around it freshly cut. It’s strange, to sit atop the grave that holds his mother. It’s not that he didn’t know that she had a grave, it’s just that he didn’t think much about it at all. Even when he was changing to come out here, he didn’t think that he would be affected by the sight. He can admit when he’s wrong. 

And he was wrong.

She’d been the same age he is now when she’d died, yet he’d never really thought of her as dead. Even when she’d left that last time. She’d just been _gone_ , and by then he didn’t know how to grieve her. He’d grieved for his grandmother. He’d grieved for his father and then later for Sarah. But how do you mourn for someone that had always been dead to you? Someone who drifted in and out of his life to the rhythm of a broken metronome. She’d never _really_ been there. Not in the way his father had been or the way Sarah had been. She’d stretched her spirit thin over the years to stay with him until she was just a whisper of the woman buried below him. He’d never mourned her, just for her. For her lost years and her lost dreams. Watching him grow.

Long overdue, Bucky mourns Winifred Barnes. 

“Love you, Ma” he says before he leaves her for the last time. 

The next morning, while Clive gives him a ride back to the bus stop, he feels more settled than he has since his father was killed. His sisters are safe and so very smart. Even if he never makes it back from war, he knows they’ll be alright. He said goodbye, a real goodbye to his mother. And he’s on his way back to the man he loves. What else could he hope for?

* * *

Steve fast walks out of the recruitment center, avoiding anyone who looks like they may want to arrest him.

“Really, Steve? It’s my last night here.” Bucky looks at him with disappointment.

“Is that why Bonnie and Connie are here? So we can spend your last night home together?” He doesn’t mean to be annoyed. But he is. Bucky’s going to ship out without him and _no one_ will take him. 

“Stevie…” Bucky says with a soft admonishment.

“Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean that. But, Buck, do you still feel it? That certainty that I’m meant to do great things?”

The matching annoyance on Bucky’s face drops into something softer, something more earnest and loving. “Every time I look into your eyes. Every time I listen to the passion in your voice. Every time I pull you from a fight because you won’t back down.”

“I had him on the ropes,” he says automatically.

“I know it, Steve.”

“I thought that tonight, for sure tonight, I’d get in. It felt right trying this time. Maybe, it’s just you. I’m meant for great things for you.”

“It’s true that you’re the greatest thing in my life and I would give just about anything for that to be true, for it to just be me and you. But I think it’s too big. The gift that you have. And I think that means I have to share you with the world.”

“Bucky!” Connie shouts from where she stands with Bonnie. 

“And I have to share you with Bonnie and Connie.” He rolls his eyes. “Go dance. I promise you I’ll meet you at home. I need to clear my head.”

“I’m gonna miss my best dance partner...do you promise you’re only going to go clear your head?”

“Promise. At this point I don't think there’s a recruitment center or board that isn’t looking for me. Plus, I can't let my best guy down. I’ll be there.”

“Bucky! Are we going dancing or what?” Connie yells again.

Bucky turns to face them and yells, “One moment ladies!” then back to Steve. “Punk. Come home to me.”

“I think that’s my line.”

“I’m just going for a few dances. You’re going to clear your head. Who knows how long that could end up taking. Could take the entire war.”

“Jerk.”

“And you are a punk. Go do what you need to do, Stevie.”

He smiles while he watches Bucky walk away with Bonnie and Connie on each arm and shoves his hands into his pockets.

“It’s hard to be left behind, isn’t it?” a voice behind him asks. He stiffens and turns. A man casually fingers through an open folder. Oh, that looks like his folder. He does a quick look around to check for MP’s. “So, you want to be in the Army?”

“I want to do my part.”

“You want to do your part in killing Nazis?”

“I don’t like bullies, Nazi or otherwise.”

The man looks at Steve for a moment more before shutting the file and putting it under his arm. “You must not...you appear to be very persistent. Annoyingly so, according to the list of complaints from the recruitment boards. But, lucky for you, I’m looking for a little persistence.”

“Really?” he asks with a cautious excitement growing in him.

“Really,” the man says back. “Let’s go discuss your future, shall we, young man?”

* * *

Steve makes it home as fast as possible but Bucky is already pacing in front of the window with a lit cigarette when Steve walks in. When he sees Steve he stubs the cigarette out on a small plate and crosses his arms.

“I didn’t think you’d make me question the ‘come home to me part’ of our conversation.”

“I’m sorry if I worried you, but…”

“Of course I was worried! There’s a war going on and my shining is literally buzzing non-stop so it’s just, really difficult to focus it sometimes. I was scared.” Bucky stands, chest rising and falling with barely contained anger.

“It happened, Buck.” He goes to Bucky and holds his hands until Bucky’s breathing settles and then fishes the folded up paper out of his pocket. He hands it over, hardly able to conceal the glee in his voice. “I’m in. Me. It’s for a special project.”

“You're in,” Bucky says softly, staring at the paper in disbelief before it morphs into an ecstatic smile, “You’re in, Steve! I knew it!” He tosses the paper behind him, grabs Steve and pulls him close, chest to chest. Steve shivers when he feels long fingers comb through his hair. He pushes his hand under Bucky’s untucked shirt and rubs at the soft skin. Bucky’s lips hover next to his when he asks “When do you leave?”

“Soon. A week maybe. I’ll get our stuff taken care…” Bucky interrupts him with a kiss… “of.”

When they break the kiss, Bucky takes him by the hand and pulls him toward the bedroom, “Oh, I like where this is headed.” 

Bucky stops and looks at Steve seriously. “I’m headed off to war tomorrow, mister. Give me something to remember you by?”

Steve moves past him. “You’re terrible. I’m going to give you something. In fact, I think I want you to ride me with nothing but that hat on.”

“Disgraceful. What would my superiors say? I’d be out of uniform, literally and figuratively, and fraternizing with a lower enlisted. I’m a sergeant you know.”

“You may have mentioned it. And, I think if your superiors saw what I was about to do to you, the hat would be the least of their complaints.”

The hat, despite Steve’s best efforts, stays on Bucky’s head. He’d feel bad, but god what a show. 

* * *

“Fire Guard again, Rogers?” Bucky says from beside him.

Steve lets out a dramatic, but quiet groan. Looking up from his mop he sees Bucky's smirking face.

“I remember you doing fire guard too, Barnes, but feel like maybe there was a bit you left out about basic training. Like how often I’d have to do it.”

“It’s a very important task, Steve,” Bucky tells him seriously. What an ass.

“Oh sure! Gotta make sure the barracks don’t burn down with all these open flames around.” He spreads his arms out wide. 

“Private Rogers, that is quite the lackadaisical attitude you’re displaying about the safety of your fellow soldiers,” Bucky says.

He glares at Bucky and mops as aggressively as possible. “It’s just, higher ranking pushing the shit they’re supposed to be doing, like watching over the recruits, down to those with less power.”

“Welcome to the Army. It doesn’t get any better by the way.”

“Great.”

“Hey,” Bucky says, closer now. “I miss you.” 

“Don’t dirty my floor, Barnes.”

“Sergeant Barnes.” 

“Sergeant Barnes,” he mimes. “I miss you too. Still in England?”

“We’re headed to Italy tomorrow.”

That gets his attention. He drops the mop to the side. “I feel like every day you move further and further away.”

“Yet here I am. And I’ll keep coming until we’re back together. Remember, we’re on the same path, only distance separates us.”

“It’s a lot of distance.”

“You’ve got this. I’ve watched these other guys and they’ve got nothing on you, Stevie. Bunch of fucking assholes. Especially that Hodge guy. I hope Agent Carter gets to punch him in the face again.”

“Oh, Bucky. I wish you could have seen it.” 

“Me too.”

“Be careful,” Steve tells him fiercely. 

“Careful’s my middle name,” Bucky shoots back, which is an absolute dirty lie, but Steve accepts it. What else can he do?

“I love you, Jimmy Careful Barnes.”

“I fucking love you too, fire guard Rogers.”

“Jerk.”

"Punk. See ya later, Stevie,” Bucky says as he fades from Steve’s vision. 

“See ya,” he whispers to the empty hallway. 

* * *

Steve lays out on his back and stretches his legs. He’s definitely put on muscle, but god at what cost. Seven miles trekking through woods, up and down hills with a squad of some of the biggest assholes he’s ever met, and it doesn’t feel like he’s any closer to...whatever it is he’s here for.

“Stars are pretty out here,” Bucky says. Soreness forgotten for the moment, he turns to see Bucky laying down beside him. 

“Hey, Buck,” He says softly. Bucky looks _tired_. Bone weary in a way he hadn’t been back in London.

“Hey, Stevie,” Bucky says back to him. “It’s almost time for us to get moving again, but for some reason I wanted to see your ugly mug instead of catching a little more sleep.”

“I’ll have you know, I just completed a seven mile march and have developed a leg muscle.”

Bucky looks around, “Is that what part of training you’re at? God, you’re almost finished, Steve.”

He is almost finished. Once they’re finished with their training out here, they’ll march back and graduate. He assumes that if he’s not selected, he’ll be assigned to a unit, and hopes that Peggy’s been able to pull some strings to get him to the 107th and Bucky, but he’s not sure. As much as he’d like to think that they wouldn’t send him home after all of the time they’ve put into training him, they could. They could send him back to Brooklyn, effectively throwing him and Bucky onto different paths. 

“They’re going to choose you, Steve. There’s no one better than you,” Bucky says.

“You didn’t see me at land navigation,” Steve whispers sarcastically.

“Who’d have thought dropping a Brooklyn boy in the woods with a compass wouldn’t work out. You’ll be fine, Steve. That’s what having a team is about, and I happen to be very good at land navigation.”

“Really? Even when you’re not cheating by using your shining?”

“Hey! It’s not cheating, it’s using my resources. And I don’t recall you complaining about it when it got us into Ebbets or Kings or…”

“Fine, fine,” he concedes and then looks back up at the sky. “They really are something. I love Brooklyn, but this view is beautiful.”

Bucky hums in agreement and they lay there together, gazing up at the constellations. He could almost imagine that Bucky is really there beside him. That he could move his hand over just a fraction, twine their fingers together and squeeze.

“I’ve gotta go,” Bucky says.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Steve says. The old joke meant to be a comfort, but he means it. _Don’t do anything stupid,_ he thinks, hoping he can make it true by sheer will.

“How can I, I’m leaving all the stupid with you,” Bucky responds and then he’s gone.

* * *

“Damnit, Rogers. I didn’t think you’d take it to heart when I said I was leaving all the stupid with you.” 

Steve uncurls from where he lays in the dirt caccooning the grenade. He manages to catch a glimpse of an irate looking Bucky, hands on his hips, cigarette hanging from his lips, eyes ice cold and narrowed, before his projection is scattered by Peggy and Doctor Erskine.

“Well...shit,” Steve says.

* * *

“That was stupid, Steve,” Bucky says.

The barracks are empty now. Doctor Erskine and Agent Carter left to go make further arrangements and the rest of the recruits packed their belongings hours ago. When he’d asked Agent Carter where they were going, she’d given him an unimpressed look that could rival Bucky’s and his mother’s and reminded him that there is a war going on. Now, it’s only Steve left, waiting on...arrangements.

“I wanted to help,” He will not be made to feel bad. Bucky is over there risking his life without Steve there beside him. He has the right to do the same.

“You do help! Steve, I am so glad that there are people who see you for you. People who see what an amazing person you are and your capacity for kindness. I’m grateful that Agent Carter and Doctor Erskine recognize your brilliance and accept you. Even your terrible sense of humour. But throwing a dummy grenade, to take advantage of that kindness to make certain that you’d die for those around you? I’ll never be alright with that. You are not expendable.”

Steve is not above self-reflection, so he stays perhaps uncharacteristically quiet to think on what Bucky said. 

“First, I have a great sense of humor,” Steve counters. 

“You do not.”

“Agree to disagree. Secondly, true of heart, right?” At Bucky’s frown he continues. “That’s what you said. I don’t have the shining like you do. All these things you can do. But you said that you were drawn to me because I was true of heart. You said that my instincts point me in the right direction and I listen to the right people.”

“If everyone other than me counts as the right people, sure.”

“Bucky, when that grenade hit the ground I _knew_ covering it was the right thing to do. Whether my shining knew that it was a dud or that everything would turn out alright, I don’t know. But it was right.”

Steve stands and walks to where Bucky is. He looks even more tired than before. God, when was the last time they’d really had a chance to talk. Steve doesn’t even know what the 107th has done lately. 

“Bucky,” he says softly, “I know I’m not expendable. I want us to do our part and survive this and then come home and live the rest of our lives together. Sweetheart, I promise I’m going to do everything in my power to make that happen.” 

* * *

To say that Bucky hates seeing Steve in any sort of discomfort is an understatement. Seeing Steve get hurt puts him into a rage. That little bit of brain that controls his anger doesn’t light up like the fireworks at the Stark Expo, it’s like a dying star that goes supernova, blotting out everything else in its vicinity. Unfortunately, it’s often his self-control that’s in the vicinity and the last person who’d deliberately hurt Steve had received a beating so severe from Bucky that he’d been on crutches for close to six months afterwards.

So, who’s he supposed to rage against now, while Steve’s screams bounce around this secret laboratory? Steve had wanted this. Steve had sought this out at every turn and damnit Bucky was right there encouraging him at every single step. Not only encouraging it, but actively using his shine to make it happen.

Steve’s screams increase to the point where even Agent Carter storms out of the viewing parlor to tell them to stop. Finally, someone around here with some sense. Someone else who doesn’t want to see Steve’s life sacrificed in the name of becoming some scientific marvel. 

“No. Don’t. I can do this!” Steve yells because he’s determined to put them both into an early grave. 

They keep going. 

Then it’s over and Steve’s screams stop. The machine falls blessedly silent and opens. For a moment, Bucky’s brain can’t come up with anything other than, _who’s that?_ As if there was a false compartment that allowed Steve to switch places with this very large man. An act that would have made Houdini proud.

At last his brain catches up with what’s happened. The man...Steve...steps out of the machine to the gathering crowd. Bucky doesn’t say a word, but Steve looks up regardless, searching for him. Bucky lets out a sigh of relief. It’s him. He’d know that man anywhere. Same beautiful blue eyes, same nose, same kissable lips. He’s just taller and...shinier. Literally, like someone poured oil all over him.

Agent Carter, looking as shocked and dazed as Bucky feels, lifts a hand to touch... _hey now_. She seems to snap back to herself, then reaches out again like Steve’s tits have developed their own gravitational pull. Honestly, he can’t blame her. 

_Sarge! Wake up, we’re up for guard duty._

He smiles one last time at Steve and spares a glance down at that shining heaving chest and pulls himself back to Italy.

* * *

“Wow,” Steve whispers again. 

“Wow yourself,” he says. Steve is sitting as close as possible to him.

“You're so pretty, Buck.”

“You’re one to talk. I wish you could see yourself through my eyes.”

“I’ve looked in a mirror.”

“Not the same. If you could look through my eyes you would see that you were just as beautiful two days ago as you are today.”

“You’re a real sap, Barnes.”

“Only for you, Stevie.”

“Better be.”

“You’re feeling ok though?”

“I’ve never felt healthier.”

“I mean, that was a pretty low bar.”

“I feel good, Buck. So good. It’s you and me, on the same path. I’ll be there soon, I know it.” 

* * *

“I do really enjoy those tights,” Bucky says as a greeting. 

Steve turns around in the small dressing room. Bucky leans against the wall, looking him up and down with a hungry leer. “You were always the one who likes soft pretty things.”

“True, but who’s to say that I can’t try them on for you? Then you could use your new big strong muscles to rip them off of me…”

“Stop that,” he laughs, “I cannot go on stage with a raging hardon.”

“Why? I bet you’d sell so many bonds you’d break records.”

“I’d end up in jail is what I’d do.”

“Captain America and his trusty...side-dick. Bet you could get your own blue-bible.”

“ _Bucky,_ ” he says exasperated. “Where have you been? It’s been weeks since I’ve seen you.”

“Seeing more of Italy. It’s always Italy, Steve. In some muddy field...or sometimes in the same muddy field. Or the woods, or some bombed out town or vill…” Bucky breaks off into a wet cough, “...village.”

“That cough doesn’t sound good.”

“It’s fine.”

“Oh sure, I wouldn’t know what a bad cough sounds like would I?”

“I’ll shake it...it’s just a cold.”

“Steve!” one of the chorus girls calls. Gladys, he thinks. “You’re up in five.”

“I’ve gotta go. Come back later.”

“I’ll try. Promise. Now go shake your ass, Captain.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out the new playlist by maximoffs for the second half of the story!

[My Unconquerable Soul II Playlist by maximoffs](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4pZWEunCQK1F1pCncgyTuH)

“Hey, Sarge, take a look at that.” Bucky looks up from where he’s reassembling his weapon to where Dugan is pointing in the sky.

“Oh no,” he says, seeing chutes opening in the sky. “Misdrop.”

“Doesn’t look like they're all blowing too far away,” Dugan says. “We could maybe get to some of them before the Germans.”

“Go ask the LT,” he says. 

He watched the soldiers gently drift. If they keep on their current path, it won’t matter if Bucky and his squad can get to them first. The German heavy guns will open fire and they’ll be dead when they hit the ground...or, Bucky looks around him...before they hit the trees.

The shining is, unfortunately, not very helpful in these circumstances. He can pick up on stray thoughts here and there, even when he’s not trying. But to broadcast his thoughts, he needs to be able to concentrate on the person. He can’t peppershot a bunch of paratroopers with coordinates or direction and make that much of an impact. But, he still wants to try to save as many as he can. The trick is to make it a somewhat vague suggestion, like a feeling or a stray thought. Making it seem like it was their own idea is best otherwise some men mistake it for providence. Which is also fine, it keeps Bucky out of the spotlight, but he still finds it a little more annoying. 

He’s worked his way through the closest paratroopers by the time Dugan makes it back with Corporal Larson and Jack.

“LT says to make it snappy,” Dugan says, looking back to the sky. “Oh look, a couple of them are turning.”

He looks back up and Dugan’s right. A couple of the billowing parachutes are turning, moving closer to them. Not as many as he’d like, but at least he got a couple. 

_Good job_ , he thinks to himself, to his shining, gives it a mental pat on the head. 

“Let’s go get them,” Bucky says, weapon back together and at the ready. 

They’re moving through the woods as silently as possible when he hears the telltale buzz of the German’s Mausers. He flattens himself to the side of the tree, his breath caught in his chest. Heart pounding, he gives himself one long moment of respite before prying himself away from the tree. 

“Gotta make it snappy, right?” he tells the rest of the men. They murmur and grunt, but they move away from their cover, following him further into the woods as the Mausers fire on.

“Poor bastards,” Dugan says quietly next to him. “I hate the sound of that gun...worst sound in the world.”

“It’s definitely in the top five,” he says back. “I saw three chutes come our way. Is that what you saw?”

“Yeah...let’s hope they came down close together,” Dugan says. “I’d like to not be hiking through more mud than necessary.”

They are, Bucky thinks, doomed to the mud no matter what. It’s been nothing but rain and mud for the last week and between the tanks and trucks and bombers tearing up the countryside, every advance has been through the clinging, suctioning sludge.

By the time they find the first soldier, the Mausers have stopped firing. The look up at the trees and to the soldier, dead and tangled in the lines of his chute and still swaying from his struggles. He looks around, relieved when he doesn’t see the spirit...hanging around. He sends Jack up the tree to cut the lines while the rest of them lower the body down gently.

“Let’s put him in the brush. We’ll come back for him after we find the other two,” he says.

Larson’s lip curls in disgust.

“Do you have a problem, Corporal?” he asks sharply.

“No, Sergeant,” Larson responds, clearly with a problem, but Bucky doesn’t have the time to deal with him at the moment...not the way he’d like. Not with two more men out there that need their help.

“Good. Then keep your damn thoughts to yourself and off your face.” He doesn’t wait for the other three to follow him before he starts off again. 

It only takes another five minutes to find the other two soldiers, thankfully both out of the trees and alive, if not a bit banged up. Bucky slows his approach, not wanting to startle the soldiers. One terrifying experience at a time is Bucky’s personal preference and he’d like to extend that to these men. 

They don’t have much time before they risk a patrol from the German side but he at least wants Jack to look them over before they take off. Jack bandages the worst of their lacerations before giving Bucky the thumbs up. Throughout it all, Larson hangs back, a look of disgust on his face. Some men, Bucky thinks, should be sent back home in a box. 

They walk on in silence, back towards where the dead soldier is hidden away. 

“We were replacements,” Private Arai tells Jack, breaking the silence. 

“I was too. Or am, I guess...only been here a few weeks now,” Jack tells him. Jack’s a good kid with sharp features and a quick temper. 

“Guess we’re just taking _everyone_ nowadays,” Larson says under his breath. And, oh, Bucky is gonna light Larson up, but before he gets the chance, one of the privates speaks up.

“I’m from Fresno, _Ace_ ,” the private next to him says.

“That’s Corporal, _Private_.”

“Larson, go take point from Dugan. I don’t want to see your face or hear your voice unless it’s mission related.” He and Larson glare at each other, but Larson does finally move up front to relieve Tim. He turns to the Private. “I’m sorry.”

“I wish I could say it’s unexpected, but it’s not.”

“I’ll put in a complaint once we’re back, but…”

“I’ve got no expectation that it'll do any good.”

“Yeah, me either,” he sighs. “But it’s what I can do.”

“It’s strange…” the Private says to him quietly, “How I knew to change course.”

“I’d say it was pretty damn lucky.”

“Jay...that’s Private Arai, he said that the thought just came to him suddenly.”

“Wow, that’s incredible,” Bucky says, playing it cool.

“For me, it was like an order, but it felt familiar.”

“That is strange.” 

“It’s like someone, maybe someone on the ground, was actually talking to us.”

Bucky hasn’t encountered anyone since Marco that picked out his shining. He chances a look over to the Private, but doesn’t see any shine on him. “That would be something.”

The Private smiles at him. “I grew up in Fresno.”

“You mentioned that…”

“But I’m not from Fresno. I actually have a fun story. Do you want to hear it?”

“Sure?”

“Alright. When I was little, I was a shy kid. There weren’t any other Japanese kids around and there was this other kid at school who bullied me...made my life hell, which is scary because I was like four...five? Anyway, I hated talking in class...no one would sit by me at lunch…”

“Holy shit,” Bucky breathes out.

“And then one day this little curly headed kid sits by me at lunch and talks in my head…”

“Are you kidding me?” Bucky stops walking and stares at the man in front of him. 

“So this kid and I became best friends until we both moved away from that little Indiana town and I never thought I’d see him again. But then I’m dropped over Italy and all of sudden there’s this voice in my head...and it sounds different, but it _feels_ the same.” 

“Jimmy Morita.”

“Bucky Barnes,” Jimmy says with a laugh. “Unbelievable.”

* * *

“Stevie….Stevie,” he whispers. Steve’s a big lump, tucked away in the bed in his fancy hotel room. He looks nice and warm...comfortable and safe. It’s still a shock to see Steve’s new body and he’s struck, like every day of their separation, with a deep yearning to touch him. 

“Bucky?” Steve yawns out. “What time is it?”

“Nearly midnight for you. Why aren’t you out partying and schmoozing? Can't bear to go out without me huh, pal?”

“I had rehearsal tonight.” He props himself up on an elbow and laughs. “They had me punch Hitler. And lift a motorcycle.”

“They got Hitler in your act? Pal, maybe have him surrender before you knock his lights out tomorrow.” 

“I’ll do my best, Sergeant,” he says. “How are you?”

“I’m good but you’ll never guess what happened today.” Bucky can’t hardly believe it himself. 

Steve lets his head fall to the pillow and burrows in. “Tell me.”

“So, there was a misdrop.”

* * *

Arnim disembarks from his train with hurried steps, eager to get to his labs down within the mountain before he gets pulled into yet another meeting. Arnim does not appreciate meetings. He desperately wants to get back to his work with the Tesseract.

“Arnim!” He stops, groans as quietly as he can and turns to Johann’s voice. 

Aleksander is with him, following behind, obedient and appraising. Arnim feels the same flicker of bitterness for the last year. Aleksander was meant to be his. Arnim had wanted him working down in the labs with him on his projects. Instead, he’d shown such an aptitude and enjoyment for politics that he’d taken to following Johann. 

Johann remains delighted to have a protégé of sorts, especially one with the unique abilities that Aleksander has. So Arnim toils in his laboratories alone, splitting his time between unlocking the Tesseract’s secrets and recreating Abraham’s serum. Both have proven to be difficult tasks. He knows he must be on the cusp of the original serum, but something is off and all of his test subjects die without any signs of Johann’s strength. As for the Tesseract, for all of the applications he’s found for it, Johann wants more. But Johann is obsessive with the cube and rarely lets it out of his sight. 

“Johann. Aleksander. What do I owe this pleasure to?” he asks with all the fake cheer he can muster. 

“Aleksander and I are coming up with some contingencies, in case the Reich is not successful.”

“I thought we had very much parted with the Reich. When you disintegrated the Führer’s Generals.”

“Yes, well, that was only the beginning,” Aleksander says. Arnim nearly scoffs. Aleksander wasn’t even at the base when that happened. They’d sent him out to meet more of their family. 

“Old friend,” Johann says and places a hand on his shoulder, “ _oldest_ friend, I need your help. Together, we have nurtured Hydra and it has grown _strong_ . We have soldiers all over the world. Soon, capitals around the world will fall to our superiority. We will rule them through our science, through our supersoldiers and when it is done we will sit like _kings_ and the humans will bring our steam to us. We will never go hungry.”

There’s a reason Hydra has a million foot soldiers now. They will follow Johann anywhere and he understands the compulsion. He’s been following Johann for much, much longer.

“What do you need me to do?” he asks.

“It’s time to start deploying Hydra’s soldiers. We have weapons ready at the base in Austria to be tested. We need to test them out...and you need more bodies to experiment on.” Aleksander says from the side but Arnim doesn’t break eye contact with Johann.

“What do you need _me_ to do...oldest friend?” he asks again. He’s not an expendable foot soldier. Johann wouldn’t be sending him to Austria to play with the weapons.

“Abraham has succeeded. The Allies have a supersoldier,” Johann says. Arnim’s shoulder gives a twinge of pain under Johann’s grip. “We must recreate the serum. You will go to Austria and our soldiers will give you all the test subjects you need. Take anyone you need. Take all your research...Arnim, I _want_ a soldier.” 

Fine then, old friend, he thinks. Let’s see _how_ much he wants his soldier. “I need the Tesseract.” 

* * *

When Bucky was a kid, in that strange time after he’d moved to Brooklyn with his grandma but before he’d met Steve, he thought he might be a little more dead than alive. It was an odd and morose thought for a child to have, but how else could he be seeing his dead mother all those years if he weren’t straddling some invisible line between life and death? 

In a fit of fear and sadness, he had confessed his conclusion to his grandma. She had, of course, told him that he was wrong. He was a living and breathing boy. Not a dead thing about him. These were just gifts that he had. They didn’t make him any worse, or better, than anyone else around him. He only needed to learn how and when to use them. 

They didn’t cover war.

As it turns out, the aftermath of combat isn't great for a guy who sees the dead. Who would have thought? So Bucky is often faced with the possibility of having to wade through a veritable sea of spirits. 

Some soldiers, the lucky ones, never manifest into spirits. Like back home, there’s no pattern on the battlefield that he’s been able to discern. He’s seen people pass both peacefully. He’s been the person holding their hand while they take their last breath. And most recently, he’s been the person who’s ended their life. He _never_ knows in advance if their spirit will move on immediately or linger. 

Some soldiers are just _dead_ dead. Some soldiers need a little push. Some never leave. 

Unfortunately for the ones that don’t go, they don’t always realize what’s happened right off, which makes it all the more difficult for Bucky to watch. They approach their buddies, thinking that they've made it through one more battle. It’s what they all want, just to make it through the next one. They laugh and they joke until they realize that no one is responding. Then the frustration and anger set in. And then the confusion comes...and the fear. Soon enough, their pleas turn urgent. 

But the living never see. Never hear. Except for him. 

“Well, Barnes,” he says to himself, “let’s get this over with.” 

He heaves out a sigh and tries to ignore the pull how he’d like nothing more than to go rest. He’s exhausted and filthy. But he knows he won’t rest well if he doesn’t get some, if not all, of these guys to move on. Time to get back to work. 

He picks his way through the wreckage of the fight. The bodies, yet to be moved, will stay in place until the supporting units arrive to begin their removal and he wants to be finished with this part long before they get here. 

_Make it snappy, Barnes_.

Once he gets the attention of one spirit, the others usually follow quickly so he needs to move far enough away that the men in his unit don’t witness him talking to thin air. Luckily, besides his squad, most men like to keep their distance anyhow. Being the best marksman for their squad makes him a valuable asset, but there’s also a sense of premeditation in his killings that can make the other men uneasy around him. 

Once he’s walked far enough away from the main body of soldiers, he finds the spirit of a man, turning in small circles, looking at the destruction around him. Bucky stops a few feet from him and clears his throat softly. The man stops mid rotation and faces him. 

“That’s me,” the spirit gestures to the body at his feet. 

Down on the forest floor lies the body of the spirit before him. Some of them become hyper fixated on their bodies, unable to accept what’s right in front of them. Some of them can’t look away because, well, it’s hard to look away from their own dead body, he supposes. This man’s body has been utterly ruined by the tools of war and barely recognizable. Bucky himself wouldn’t have been able to make an identification, but once the spirits catch onto their situation, they seem to always know which body is theirs.

“I’m dead?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” he responds, then belatedly, “I’m sorry.”

He’s always sorry. Sorry that they don’t just bypass this agonizing step and pop off straight to the Beyond. Sorry that he’s the one that’s here to witness this last sorrowful moment. On many, many days he’s sorry that he can see them at all. 

“You don’t have to stay here. There’s a Beyond. You get to keep going,” Bucky tells him softly. He shuffles closer to a large beech tree, takes a look back at the men sitting around, and notices more spirits moving towards him. He leans his back up against the trunk, faces away from the living and waits for more of the dead to arrive.

He’s mostly gotten this process all figured out. Back home, he’d never been around so many dead at once but after his first battle here, he knew that if he didn’t get a firm hold on the situation, he’d never get any peace. 

Slowly, the dead converge on his spot by the beech tree. He’s usually only gotta get one to move on and then it's like a chain reaction. One by one, they’ll move on, one moment here and gone the next, flickering out of existence. 

“There’s nothing left for you here. It’s time for you to move on.” Steve thinks that he should be more sensitive. And it’s not that he’s trying to be unkind or abrupt. But there’s only so long that he wants to be out here with actual corpses and spirits. Most of the spirits appear whole. They don’t look like their bodies, which Bucky will be eternally grateful for. Of course, there are always exceptions. And he hates them the most. The spirits do their version of an impatiently shuffle. He switches tactics.

 _You can help them move across to the Beyond, Private,_ he pushes gently towards the first spirit. The Private looks up from his body to him. _Move along, Private,_ he pushes again, this time a little bit firmer. Persuading spirits isn’t like persuading the living. Something about them not being tethered to their corporeal forms makes them less pliant. Like the push itself just drifts right through them without catching. Bucky’s not very good at persuasion. He’s never liked controlling others, so he never really put it to practice, but he’s never been strong at it either. He’s only used it when he’s felt like there wasn’t another attainable alternative. 

This push seems to do the trick. The Private’s gaze slides off him and settles in the distance. Bucky doesn’t turn to look. Whatever the spirits see, is for them only. He had tried for years to see where his mother would go. Intensely, he’d watch her spirit in order to glean any clue of what was in the Beyond. No matter how hard he focused his attention, he never found out. Like the flicker of a badly made film, she’d disappear from view.

“Time to go fellas,” the Private says. When he moves past Bucky the other spirits begin to depart. Some follow the Private while some flick out of existence where they stand. He leans his head back against the rough bark and closes his eyes and takes a few minutes for himself. Soon enough, support troops will arrive to begin processing the dead and it will be time to push forward. When he opens his eyes, he takes a look around and is pleased to see that the space around him is vacant.

“Barnes! We’re heading out!” Dugan yells. He pushes away from the tree and makes his way over to Dugan and Jim. Jim raises an eyebrow in question as he approaches but doesn’t get a chance to say anything before they’re joined by a few members of 2nd squad. 

“Admiring your handy work?” Larson asks snidely. The complaint Bucky had registered about the Corporal's conduct had, as expected, been set aside. But Bucky’s campaign to have Larson reassigned out of his squad was granted, earning him a permanent enemy. 

From then on Larson had been hard at work to poison his new squad and anyone who would listen to him, against Bucky. He knows that many of the men find him odd no matter how hard he tries to keep his head down. He’s sent on his own to provide cover during fights which under normal circumstances would endear him to the other squads in their platoon. But Larson’s words had done their job and he makes it even harder on himself when he doesn’t stick around with the other men after the fight is done. Instead keeps to himself, sending spirits on their way. 

“Fuck off, Larson,” Dugan says. “Take a fucking walk.”

Larson neither fucks off nor takes a fucking walk. “Not my fault he’s a freak. Everyone knows it.”

“Is that really the way you want to talk to the best shot in our unit? The guys that’s up above watching our backs?” Jim asks.

“Are you threatening me?” Larson asks heatedly, moving into Jim’s space only to be intercepted by an even angrier Dugan, bowler hat tipped down low over his brow.

“I said fuck off, Larson or there’s going to more than threats flying around here,” Dugan growls.

“Tim, back off. Let him go,” Bucky says calmly, taking Dugan’s arm and leading him away. Like he needs any more attention. “He’s just sore that he got roped into being a Corporal,” he says a little louder. 

Dugan throws his head back in laughter. It’s a raucous thing that grabs the attention of the men who had started to gravitate towards their small group in curiosity. Some men never get their fill of violence.

Jim gets up and grabs his and Bucky’s rucksack and ignores Larson as he passes him. “Damn right he should be sore. No one listens to Corporals.” 

Bucky thanks Jim as he takes his ruck. “Cheer up, Sarge,” Jim says. “You’ll never guess what I heard while you were on your stroll.”

Neither Bucky nor Dugan can figure out how Jim does it, but he always gets the best gossip before anyone else. Bucky would say it was the shining, but he’s already ruled that possibility out.

“Whatcha got for us, Jim?” Dugan asks. 

“I just heard there’s gonna be another USO show in February. And guess who’s in the line-up?”

“Veronica Lake!” Dugan yells.

“Nope,” Jim says looking at Bucky with a sly fucking smile on his face. “Captain America is going to be there.” 

Bucky feels his face break into a wide grin. _Steve._ Excitement bubbles in his chest. Mail hasn’t caught up with them for a month now and he’s hardly had time to visit, so he has no clue where Steve has been. 

“The guy in tights?” Dugan asks, picking up his own ruck. The three of them make their way towards the main body of the platoon.

“Yeah, the guy in tights,” Bucky says excitedly.

“Your buddy, right Bucky?” Dugan asks, like he doesn’t damn well know.

“You know damn well it is,” Jim says. “Like he ever shuts up about Steve punching Hitler and lifting motorcycles.”

“Hey! Now that he’s coming to Europe, we can have him punch the real guy and we can all go home,” he says.

“Maybe,” Jim adds, “we’ll even get to go see it.” They’ve missed every USO show so far. It’s a running joke between the three of them now.

“Maybe so,” Bucky says, feeling something like optimism growing in him. “But first, Azzano.”

* * *

It’s dark when the battle shifts from a draw to a devastating loss as they retreat back to their defensive line. In the concealment of night, Bucky and Dugan return fire towards the enemy line while Jim and Jack bound back to their next spot of cover. Under the illumination of the next flare, Bucky sees other squads doing the same. 

He and Tim ready themselves to run. The sky dims and the next round of soldiers make their move. Bucky and another soldier collide when a mortar explodes feet away, but he keeps his footing and makes it to their next cover, throwing himself over the small mound of dirt before taking aim once again. They watch for the next flare to go off. When it does, they adjust their aim to target the line of soldiers coming at them.

Then the sounds around them change. 

A bolt of blue light comes from beyond the enemy line and hits the enemy soldiers, leaving nothing but their uniforms drifting across the battlefield like the smoke drifting on the breeze. Bucky and Dugan are stunned into stillness. They stand, stupidly, out and open for even the worst of snipers to pick off. No enemy fire finds them, but instead they watch the blue bolt fired again and again at the enemy troops until there’s nothing left. Bucky looks around him. He and Tim aren’t the only ones stupified by this new development. All about him is an entire field of Allied soldiers lured out in the open by simple morbid curiosity.

“That’s new…” Jim says, making his way over with Jack.

“Do you think they’re on our side?” Jack frowns.

“They did wipe out the Nazi’s first. Maybe that’s a good sign?” Dugan suggests, adjusting his hat.

They watch as more and more Nazi soldiers vanish in the blue light. 

“Do you feel anything, Bucky,” Jim whispers. 

Bucky closes his eyes. The shine is like an agitated, hissing thing. When he has time to sit and sooth it and work with it, it settles down. But in the midst of so much chaos, it’s a little like asking it to see the trees instead of the forest...and the entire forest is on fire. But he tries. He focuses inward and lets his shine spread its wings a bit and what he sees is…

“No, we’ve gotta go. Now!” Bucky yells, but it’s too late. Breaching the top of the hill is a tank of terrifying proportions. The cannon swings across the field, past their small huddled group to where the bulk of their unit stands. 

The four of them start yelling a mix of _run, cover, get out of there,_ with minimal success. Most of the men are transfixed on the goliath tankard before them when it opens fires. The men that aren’t killed in the first barrage turn to flee, but moments later they’re gone too. The cannon swings back around, Jim pulls him by the back of his uniform but Bucky’s too slow, a full step or two behind when a blue flash of light explodes the ground beside him and sends him and Jim tumbling back together. He feels his helmet, _should have used that chin strap pal,_ flying from his head. Which happens to be real unfortunate when the last thing he remembers is heading straight into the rocky bottom of a blown out crater. 

* * *

“How’s the head, Bucky?” Jim asks softly.

“Better today, I think,” he says. Good enough not to be shot dead for walking too slow, at least.

They’ve stopped their march for the night and Bucky lays curled up between Tim and Jim, trying to trap what little body heat available while listening to them squabble over him. They’ve been heading north for days now, picking up more prisoners along the way. Yesterday, they picked up soldiers from 92nd ID...today it’s, confoundingly, members of the French Resistance. 

“Maybe they got lost…” Dugan says above him.

“Maybe...where are they even taking us?” Jim asks.

“North.” 

“Thanks, Tim. So helpful.”

“Anything for you, Jimmy. Hey, Sarge, we should try changing those bandages soon.”

The thought of moving from his spot, only to be rewarded with cold air and having a make-shift bandage, that he’s certain is frozen to his hair, ripped away is just, not appealing. 

“Tomorrow, Tim,” he says tiredly. 

“Have you been able to sense anything from the guards?” Jim asks under his breath.

“Not yet...I can’t seem to get out of my own head.” That’s been one of the hardest parts of his injury. The pain, now that it’s faded, is manageable. But the after affects of the concussion have left him cut off from his shining. He’s tried to nudge it along, get it to stir or do _anything_ , but it only sits there idle and worthless. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. It’ll get better when you heal.” 

“If you’re going to be sorry for anything,” Tim says, “it should be that you never buckle your chin strap.”

He and Jim turn to look at Tim, bowler hat pulled down low on his forehead. 

“I suppose that’s reinforced,” Jim says.

“Hey. I rely on the Sarge’s brains...not the other way around.”

“Well, that’s true…” Jim concedes. 

His cough worsens as they endure two more days of walking before they reach a small base. They’re given their daily rations and in a welcomed change of pace, loaded into the back of a truck. The men from the 92nd ID and the French Resistance are split apart and grouped together with what little remains of the 107th. The rough road doesn’t do his aching head any favors but Bucky can’t say that he’s not relieved to be riding and not walking. 

It’s dark inside the truck, the heavy canvas blocking nearly all the light from the outside, but they feel the change in the incline as the truck starts to climb into the mountains. Their truck is packed full, with little room between them, and it helps as the air turns frigid around them.

“We’re at Brenner Pass,” a voice close to him says before turning back to the man next to him and whispering something in French. Their exchange is short before the soldier turns back. “We’re leaving Italy.” 

“Shit,” Bucky says back. “That’s not good.”

“That’s right...no one is sending a rescue all the way to Austria for us. Not when we’re still fighting to get a foothold in Italy,” the man says. 

He’s right. The 107th, their company at least, had been decimated by their captors. There’s no way the Army diverts men from the Italian lines to come all the way into Austria. Not for them and certainly not for the 92nd.

“Shit.”


	10. Chapter 10

Steve closes the book and pushes it aside. Practicing to smooth out his accent was supposed to take his mind off missing Bucky, but here he is...missing Bucky. He told the bartender to keep the drinks flowing, and he’s done a top notch job of it. 

“It doesn’t feel right...does it?” a woman asks from behind him. 

Steve keeps his eyes down on his drink, hoping whoever she is, she’s either talking to someone else or will get the hint and will wander off. Is it too much for him to wallow in sorrow without an audience? Does his every move have to be under a microscope? He desperately does not want the company. It’s why he stayed here at the hotel instead of going off and spending the evening with a bunch of strangers.

“I miss the snow,” she says wistfully. “I didn’t think I would. But holidays without snow are…”

“Wrong. Feels wrong,” he finishes for her and takes another pull from his drink, wishing he could feel drunk again.

“It was sixty degrees out today. Can you believe it?” she asks, taking the seat to his right.

He squeezes his eyes shut tight. So much for taking a hint.

“Christmas day,” she says with a sigh. “What do you think my brother would think about you pouting into a beer all by yourself?”

_Brother?_ He turns in his seat and lightning fast reflexes be damned, he nearly knocks his beer off the bar when he sees -.

“Becca?”

“Hi, Steve.”

“You’re here. How are you here?” 

“I live here. I mean, not here, here. But too close not to try to see you. And I’ve been keeping tabs on you. Bucky wrote and told me that...you’d joined the Army, and…” She waves a hand in his general direction, “...all that.”

She looks just like the photo Bucky had come home with. Bucky had hardly been able to contain himself until they’d got home from the bus station. It had been a lot and by the end of his retelling, Bucky had been nearly overcome with so many emotions that it had come out in tears.

“But how did you know that I was _here_?” 

“I may have called the front desk of every hotel in the area pretending to be an extremely wealthy benefactor who’d like to buy some bonds _directly_ from Captain America himself.”

“And that actually worked?”

“You underestimate me?”

“I would _never, ever,_ underestimate a Barnes.”

“Good call.” She smiles at him, and he’s instantly reminded of Bucky’s smile and the reason he’s here.

“What’s with the face?”

“I haven’t heard from Bucky. We don’t usually go this long without contact.”

Becca frowns with worry. “You are his next of kin, correct? So, you’d know if something had happened?”

Steve nods. He is Bucky’s next of kin and Bucky is his. He’d know if something was wrong. Bucky’s just busy, that’s all.

“Come on.” He turns to Becca. “Your brother will kill me if he finds out that I didn’t buy you a fancy dinner on Uncle Sam’s tab.”

* * *

“Hey Sarge, look alive over there,” Tim calls out to him softly. 

Bucky pushes himself up and does his best impression of a healthy POW. It’s difficult, considering how _not healthy_ he currently is, but he’s managed to pull it off for the last month just fine. Or fine enough with the help of his guys. Dugan keeps the guards looking the other way to give him a needed extra moment to clear his head but soon enough the Hydra guards approach and he forces himself into a more upright stance. 

Look at me, look how I can stand up straight. Would a sick man be able to do this? He stifles a cough until the guards have passed and then leans over his work bench trying to pull air into his heavy lungs without hacking. 

It has been, he thinks, two months since their imprisonment. And while Bucky’s head wound is healed over with a thick scab, letting him reconnect with his shining, the wet cough he’d been fighting back in Azzano has settled in for the long haul. For the last two weeks especially, Bucky’s output has been slowly but steadily decreasing. 

On the periphery of his vision, he sees Gabe bypass his own finished goods drop-off and drop the ordinance ‘gently’ behind Bucky. 

_Thank you_ , he mouths. 

“Shit,” Jim says beside him. 

Bucky turns his head just in time to see two Hydra guards striding towards him shouting. 

“Hände hoch! Hands up!” 

He throws his hands up by his head and looks across the workstation to Tim and Gabe. He gets a sharp shove in the back that sends him into the countertop and that’s all it takes to set off the coughing fit he’d been working so hard to contain. He doubles over the counter and tries unsuccessfully to smother the coughs into his elbow. When the worst of the coughing has subsided, he lifts his head and sees the same defeat and despair he feels, mirrored back at him on the faces of the others.

The guards move fast and remove him from the line. So fast that he struggles to keep his feet under him so they half-drag him down a long hallway, far beyond where the prisoners are jailed. They pull him through a room that’s a terrifying cross between medical ward and laboratory. Men, faces laden with that familiar death mask lay dying and wasting away in rows of beds. Some plead for release, but mostly it’s a hum of incoherent moaning. 

The next room is cool with a green tiled floor, nearly barren but for a hose and central drain. 

“Undress,” spits out one of the guards.

He sheds his clothes slowly, not _necessarily_ out of spite, but maybe a little bit. He drops them to the ground and kicks them into the corner.

“Over the drain.” Bucky moves to the center of the room, only just making it over the drain before he’s hit with a spray of freezing water. The pressure from the blast pushes his sick body back a step. The guard moves the spray up and down his body while Bucky involuntarily flinches and tries to brace himself against the impact. 

“Turn.” Bucky turns around and the water hits his back. Up and down. The impact against his head breaks the scap and reopens the laceration on his scalp that had finally scabbed over. Blood runs down his neck and body and disappears down the drain. At last, the hose is turned off and a small rag is thrown at him. 

“Head.” The guard mimes putting pressure to his head. Bucky copies him, hoping that the rag is clean but then realizing that it most likely won’t matter in the long run. What’s one more infection on top of the one raging in his chest? 

Naked, shivering, and coughing, the guards usher him out of the room. He passes the dying men again and this time Bucky keeps his eyes averted. There’s nothing he can do for them, not when he’ll most likely soon be joining them, and he doesn’t have the strength to bear witness to their suffering. 

Further along, they enter a new room that looks like a nightmare come to life. 

Bucky’s love of science fiction has never waned over the years. The hours he spent reading to Steve are some of his fondest memories. But, he can say with whole hearted honesty that he never wanted a starring role in the mad scientist’s laboratory. The benches are cluttered and overflowing with papers and equipment. Beakers, flasks, bunsen burners...a red liquid roiling and spitting as it _drip, drip, drips_ into a collection tube. 

To hell with this, he thinks, and stops walking. This must be a familiar reaction because one of the guards had moved directly behind him, waiting. But Bucky Barnes learned to fight at the school of Stevie Rogers and he conjures up some of that scrappiness he’s always admired in his lover. 

He drops low and spins back toward the doorway, kicking out at the guard. He’s aiming for the knee, but he’s too off balance and sluggish and kicks his shin instead. Good enough. The guard, not expecting resistance, grunts and bends at the waist. Bucky straightens and gets in a good throat punch before the second guard reaches them. While the first guard attempts to get his breath back and doesn’t, Bucky knows exactly how that feels, the second guard raises his firearm and takes aim at Bucky. 

His remaining energy deserts him and his body betrays him with yet another coughing fit. The first guard straightens with a furious look and swings the butt of his rifle at Bucky’s ribs. Too slow to dodge the blow, his side explodes with pain and his steps falter as he curls over. The guards pounce on the opportunity and hook him under the armpits, heaving him over to the table. 

It’s made of metal all the way down to the manacles meant to lock his arms and legs into place. What stops him in his tracks, takes the fight right out him isn’t the restraints, it’s that he gets a near perfect look at himself in the reflective metal of the table. His face wears the mask of death, marked with the delicate whorls and curls he’s witnessed on hundreds of people over the years. Like the men in those beds. 

And he knows with certainty that he’s going to die here. 

* * *

_What a waste_ , Egon thinks to himself. 

The last manacle locks around the prisoner’s wrist with a snap. He’s compliant now, silent but for his harsh breaths and weak coughs. The burst of anger that fueled his attempt at escape burned out of him completely once Friedrich and Karl had been able to move him to the table. It happens regularly, in Egon’s experience here. Prisoners often display one last moment of defiance before they come to accept the inevitable. 

Karl logs the prisoner’s transfer onto the required form and waits for Egon to begin his dictation. Science is nothing without proper documentation, Doctor Zola has told them, and he takes the responsibility seriously. Doctor Zola is creating the future of Hydra. These men should be honored to be included in these studies, but alas, the allied forces lack the scientific vision of Hydra. To bring peace and order to the world through science is worth every sacrifice. But...it would be nice to start with a prisoner with more of a chance at surviving the procedure. Not that _any_ of the test subjects have survived the procedure as of yet.

It’s just that the prisoner before him is more at the dead end of the spectrum than the living end. Would a healthy test subject be too much to ask for once? 

“Preliminary observations?” Karl asks roughly with a wince. That throats going to hurt for a while. Oh well. Karl talks too much for Egon’s liking anyway. Perhaps the prisoner did him a favor with that throat punch. 

Egon begins his assessment, “Subject sixty-one was received into laboratory 2 on the twenty-third day of August, nineteen fourty-three at seventeen hundred hours. The test subject is a male of approximately one hundred seventy-eight centimeters in height. The subject was received with the following deficiencies: complexion is sallow, elevated temperature of thirty-nine point two degree celsius and a persistent cough.” Damn battlefield pneumonia. Those subjects always die the quickest and yield the least amount of usable data. He takes his stethoscope out and listens to the crackle of the prisoner’s right lung. “Late inspiratory crackles are heard in the area of the right mid-anterior and right mid-lateral lung fields. Subject is underweight. A ten centimeter contusion is present of the subject’s left parietal bone. The wound looked to be partially healing. The subject suffered a recent rib injury resulting in the,” he pauses to palpate the injury. The subject moans miserably at the pressure, “bruising around ribs eight through ten. No fractures or breaks are discernible by manual methods.” 

Egon steps back from the table and takes another long look at the prisoner...test subject sixty-one...and predicts that he’ll die during the first round of preparatory injections. This thought relieves some of his anxieties. Schmidt has been unhappy with failure after failure, especially when they come during the second set of injections. That is when the subjects get the serum. Schmidt and Doctor Zola know that there is value in failure but the fact that the Americans have succeeded with their own serum has made Schmidt irrational and unreasonable. When this subject dies, it will not add to the disappointment. 

“What do you think, Egon?” Friedrich asks from the doorway. “Think he’ll make it through round one? Poor bastard looks dead already. Maybe we should just put a bullet in him and grab a different one.”

“No, you know the rules. We take the ones they cannot use in the factory any longer. The serum, when perfected, should work to heal a frail and damaged body,” he says. “Bring the first vials please.”

Friedrich retrieves the vials out of cold storage. Egon preps the subject’s arm and injects the formula that will reduce the body’s immune and kidney responses. 

“Good luck, subject sixty-one. With any luck you will die tonight. If you do live through this you will move to the second phase of the experiment. It is a great honor and you will get to meet Doctor Zola. He takes personal responsibility for all phase two subjects.”

“Cover him up.” He backs away and disposes of his gloves, removes his coat, and rolls his shoulders back to loosen some of the tension. This entire process can be so stressful. It’ll be good to get back home to rest up for tomorrow. Who knows, maybe subject sixty-one will surprise him and survive the night after all. 

* * *

Every breath feels like a hot dagger stabbing into his lungs. He tries clearing his throat but only gets a weak cough out, which ignites another round of agony in his chest. The soft voice of a man filters through the pain. While he speaks, his hands methodically touch him, taking his temperature, listening to his lungs, pressing in on his ribs. 

He moans, triggering another round of weak coughs. It’s an abysmal cycle to be trapped in. All at once his body is far too hot. His blood is boiling. His bones are baking and crackling like firewood in his skin. It feels like what he’d imagine laying on a black tar roof in the middle of a Brooklyn summer would feel like. Then he’s cold, so so cold, he’ll never be warm again. His body shivers and shudders against the metal underneath him. 

“...bullet in his head…” he hears and yes please that sounds lovely.

The other voice responds, a soft refusal of releasing Bucky from this plane of existence. 

Instead, he feels a sharp pinch at his elbow, and then another. Before he loses consciousness, he hears a familiar name, but no matter how hard he tries his mind fails to grasp it.

* * *

The last test subject in Observation Room 2 dies as Arnim watches. Arnim arrived with just enough time to spare. Whenever possible, he insists on being at their bedside. To bear witness. 

Subject fifty-five, a middle-aged man stares out into nothing. The experiment log reported that the subject had been verbally unresponsive since two that morning. Arnim crosses back across the room and shuts the door, knowing that no one will bother him. He walks back to his subject and leans down close. The smell of impending death tickles his senses, both the odiferous one and that ever ravenous magical one huddled inside his ribcage. 

“Awaken,” he whispers into the subject’s ear and then watches his eyes slowly blink, awareness returning as if he were only waking from a mid-afternoon nap. “Tell me, now that we’re at the end, did you feel anything new? Any hint of strength?”

The subject rolls his head to face Arnim. He rattles his restraints against the bars of his bed but remains silent. 

“Tell me,” he repeats with more force. The subject frowns, rattles his shackles, opens his mouth and grunts nonsensical sounds. Arnim catches his face in a tight grip and pries the man’s jaw open with a sickening pop. He releases the man’s face with a huff of disgust. “Chewed your damn tongue off.”

The man looks at Arnim with even more urgency. The clanging of the metal intensifies. “Don't bother, just die.” 

The room falls silent. The awareness in the subject’s eyes fades until they stare, blank and empty at Arnim. The man’s chest moves up and down in a rapid and fitful staccato for a minute longer before it shudders and finally stills. Arnim records the subject’s time of death, disappointed at not being able to gleam any final pieces of data. He takes hold of the bed railing to pull himself up but stops short at what he sees.

He traces his fingers along the smooth, cool metal of the top rail, then follows the path down to where the man’s restraint was locked in place. The metal, once strong and unyielding, is nothing more than a crushed and twisted thing. 

Arnim looks over affectionately at the dead man and whispers, “Well done, subject fifty-five.” 

* * *

Bucky doesn’t fall asleep so much as he drifts through various levels of consciousness throughout the night. If anyone comes in to check on him, it doesn’t break through the feverish haze he’s trapped within. In the morning, or what he assumes is morning, he gains more and more awareness. 

The pain in his lungs is no better, but also no worse. He’s still resigned himself to the fact that he’s going to die here, but maybe not as quickly as he initially expected. The doctor who was with him yesterday is back again, rattling off Bucky’s stats like he’s Arky Vaughan or Lou Gehrig, while the man he throat punched scribbles on a notepad. He feels a sharp pinch in his hand as the other man from yesterday inserts an IV. 

Suddenly the doctor straightens, his attention elsewhere. “Doctor Zola. I was just finishing my report. We have another candidate to move to Phase 2. Karl, give Doctor Zola the chart.”

Bucky watches the doctor shift from foot to foot and immediately pegs him as nervous. So, Doctor Zola is his boss. A new voice comes from behind him. “This is good, Egon. I was able to extract some data from subject fifty-five before he expired that will prove to be useful. Please proceed with formula sixteen of the serum.”

“Yes, Doctor Zola,” The doctor, Egon, responds. “Right away.”

Doctor Egon moves out of sight but a new figure takes his place. They’ve never met in person before, but Bucky would remember the face anywhere. Round face with round spectacles. Thinning hair and hard, cold eyes. 

Arnim.

“Ar…” Bucky tries to say, but his throat, raw and sore, chokes him up with another round of coughing. 

Zola looks down at him and frowns, “No need for conversation at this juncture, subject sixty-one.” He looks a little harder at Bucky and then smiles. “Oh, I see. There’s a little shine on you there still. A decade younger and you and I would have had a different kind of fun together.” Zola leans in close to Bucky’s ear and says softly, “I bet you would have cried so pretty for me. Unfortunately, at your present age you probably taste like shoe leather.”

He doesn’t recognize me, Bucky thinks. Funny, that something that is so ingrained in his own memory, was something forgettable for this man.

Egon comes back with a vial of red liquid and hands it to Zola, “Formula sixteen, Doctor Zola.”

“Thank you, Egon.” Zola takes the vial and holds it delicately up to the light. “Beautiful. Prepare the injections.”

Bucky watches Zola hand the vial back to Egon and then focus back on Bucky. “It is of the utmost importance that you are compliant and describe anything you feel during this process. Now, what are you going to do?”

“Describe everything,” he croaks. Of course Bucky is going to tell Doctor Zola everything. Why wouldn’t he? It’s of the utmost importance.

“And?”

“Be compliant.”

“That’s very good, very good. Are we ready, Egon?” Doctor Zola asks. 

“Yes, Doctor Zola. What protocol would you like to put into effect?” 

“One dose every six hours for the first twenty four hours and then one dose every ninety-six hours after until the regiment is complete...or the experiment terminates.”

Egon, opposite of Zola, quickly injects the vial into the glass bottle dangling above Bucky. A little red tornado appears within the bottle as Egon depresses the plunger all the way. He pockets the empty syringe and inverts the bottle. Bucky watches as the IV line slowly starts turning red.

“Descriptive and compliant,” Zola reminds him.

“Yes,” he answers, “of course.”

The red line creeps closer and closer to his hand. He watches it with a heavy anticipation. He’s not sure what to expect, but Zola wants to know how he _feels,_ so something is going to happen. At last, the entire line is a dull red, and there’s...nothing. He turns his head to look at Doctor Zola who is looking at Bucky with an uncomfortable level of intensity. 

“Nothing,” he says. He and Zola stare at one another, Bucky’s not sure what he should say. He doesn’t want to _disappoint_ Doctor Zola, but he was told to be descriptive and compliant. Lying would not be compliant. 

But then he feels something. 

“Sharp,” he says. It’s difficult to speak, but he can do it. He can be compliant. “Sharp and hot...inside my skin...like I’m being stung.”

Bucky hears the sound of pencil scratching against paper. It reminds him of Steve. Oh, Steve. Steve would say not to comply. He would say to fight, wouldn’t he? And here Bucky is just doing whatever he’s been told to do. He turns his head and clamps his mouth shut. He won’t say a thing more. He won’t help them. He won’t.

“Comply...tell me what you feel,” Doctor Zola snarls. It’s like taking a blow to the head. Bucky turns and blinks at him in confusion. Why wouldn’t he comply? Why did he stop talking? This is the most important thing to do, the only thing to do in fact. 

“I must be bleeding, it feels I’ve been cut a thousand times over. And it’s...hot. God, it's so hot.”

His restraints feel impossibly tight, branding his skin as he struggles. He turns to Zola and groans. “It hurts.”

A predatory grin spreads over Zola’s face. He leans in close once again, breath hot against Bucky’s cheek. “Then scream for me.” 

Bucky complies.

* * *

“It’s snowing outside,” Zola tells him while he readies Bucky’s IV’s for the next round of injections. “It’s beautiful, but I’m ready for spring to come.”

Zola moves about the room, preparing for the next round of testing. Bucky...stays confined to his bed, as always. 

“I have a surprise for you,” Zola says, fiddling more with the IV lines. There’s more now, snaking across his body, stabbing into his veins. “Think of it as a late Christmas gift.”

He walks away, humming a quick tempoed song. Dr. Zola, happy as can be as long as he’s got a body to torture in front of him.

“Soon, spring will come and the snow will melt. Perhaps, I will take a short break to Germany. Have you ever been to Germany? Tell me.” 

It’s a soft order, nothing like the hard orders he gets after the serum so he grinds his teeth, just to try to defy him. Zola looks over at him, not angry, not yet, but like Bucky is a cute defiant child pressing his luck.

“Tell me,” he repeats. 

He _wants_ to tell Zola. But where to start? Laying next to Stevie on the bed, or...Stevie...Steve, always fighting. Bucky should try to fight, shouldn’t he? 

“ _So defiant. Tell me.”_

“Zugspitze,” he says, his head throbbing from the order. He hears a clatter from where Zola stands, but he doesn’t dare look.

“What did you say?” Zola whispers, every syllable pushed into the folds of Bucky’s brain.

“Zugspitze.”

“And what, do you know of Zugspitze?”

The words spill from his lips in a maddening rush. The travelling. Standing in the shadow of the mountain. Arnim and Johann finding him there. Zola has moved closer and closer to him while he’s talked, entranced by their shared story perhaps. 

“Look at me.”

Bucky turns his head and looks directly into Zola’s eyes. Zola lifts a hand and Bucky prepares himself to be struck. It’s worse, he thinks, when the gentle touch of fingertips find his brow, his cheek, his chin. 

“I used to think of you,” Zola holds his intense gaze. “After you left, I thought of the little steam headed boy from America and all the ways I’d make him cry as I devoured him. And you came back to me. Do you want your gift now?”

Bucky shakes his head. No. He doesn’t want it. He’s never ready for what Zola has in store for him.

“It is a gift for me as well. Because you have...such a nice scream. And now when I listen to you, I can picture you as the boy you were.”

Zola leaves his side and Bucky, still obedient, watches him retrieve an unfamiliar case before returning to Bucky’s side.

“I think,” Zola begins, unlocking the case, “that we have found the right combination so that we don’t have a repeat of...last time.”

Zola opens the case, bathing the room in an intense blue. He picks up the cube and holds it delicately.

“This is the key to our success. The missing piece that has held back our progress...until now. This is your gift.”

Zola walks behind him. Bucky tracks him by the cube’s dimming and then intensifying glow. Once he’s back, Zola places the cube away into another holder and brings out the serum. Bucky watches all the lines change from clear to red and then waits for the inevitable order. 

It doesn’t come. Instead Zola leans over him once again. “You know how much I like to sit close and listen to your voice. But today, I cannot stay at your side. But I won’t be far. I’ll be listening to each and every scream you give me.”

The serum begins its burning and searing path through his veins while Zola attends to the cube one last time. With the flip of a switch, the glow of the cube intensifies and pulses, sending blue tendrils reaching out to him. They glide across his skin leaving stinging little kisses in their wake. Zola looks at him from behind where the cube is being held in place, safe and protected, smiling gently, almost fondly at him, and then turns the dial.

The cube gives another pulse, this one so strong it forces his eyes shut. And then something happens with the serum coursing through his body and everything goes dark. 

* * *

“You’re gonna pace a hole in the plane there, champ!” Howard yells from where he pilots the plane. 

Steve sits, despite not giving one damn about putting a hole in the plane. He’s so angry. He should have known that something was going on. Bucky hadn’t visited in months, an eternity for them, but Steve hadn’t done anything because, well, really what _could_ he have done about it? He’d convinced himself that Bucky was fine, but too tired or in too dangerous of an environment to visit with him. 

“Steve, sit,” Peggy says from her seat without looking up from her intel reports. He sits, watching her leaf through the pages and he’s struck again, like he is so many times while watching her, with an intense fondness. She would have liked to have a day or two more to gather more information, but here she is nonetheless, for Steve. 

“Thank you, Peg,” he says.

“You can thank me when we don’t get blown clear out of the sky.”

“I’ll thank you then too.” 

She doesn’t look up at him but he sees her lashes flutter in a telltale sign that she’s roller her eyes at him. “Stark?”

“Yes, my lady?” Howard yells back.

“Alter your heading. You’ll need to head northeast of the Pass. There’s farmland out there we can use to land.”

“What’s wrong with the other landing strip? It’ll be closer.”

“We’ll never make it that far. Captain Rogers would literally have to throw himself out of the airplane, hope to not get hit by enemy fire, land safely, orient himself, hike through miles of enemy territory on his own...should I continue?”

Howard throws his head back in laughter. “With his land-navigation scores?”

Peggy smiles sympathetically over at Steve, “You see the problem then.”

“Sure do. Altering heading now.”

Steve frowns down at his shield. “I’m offended? I think?” 

“Steve.” He looks up into Peggy’s face. She looks back at him earnestly. “You don’t have to do this alone. Let us help you.”

_You’ll be fine Steve. That’s what having a team is about..._ Was it only five months ago that Bucky had said those words to him?

“I was pretty bad at the land navigation course,” Steve admits with a smile. “I guess I could use some help.”

“Atta boy!” Howard yells back. “Alright, Agent Carter, what’s the plan?” 

* * *

Howard gets left behind with the plane, hidden close to the barn of an abandoned farmhouse, while he and Peggy make their way through the miles of forest.

“I can carry you...like on my back,” Steve suggests while they’re walking.

“Are you suggesting that I hold onto you like...a koala...or a baby sloth?”

“I wouldn’t mind. We could get to the base faster…” he trails off as he notices she’s stopped walking. He turns and finds her easily, even in the dark. Sometimes, it’s still disorienting just _how_ clearly he can see now. She’s stunning in the moonlight, even if she looks one wrong word away from murdering him. Actually, it reminds him a bit of Bucky. “Bad idea?”

“It’s pretty terrible. Would you have offered to Howard?”

“I mean, Howard would probably insist so he wouldn’t wreck his shoes…” Steve shrugs. Peggy glares harder. She _must_ know that he can see her do that. “But I understand your point. I’m sorry.”

They start walking again in silence.

“I know how important this mission is to you, Steve. And if I thought that by being here that I would negatively impact the timeline, I would point you in the right direction and let you run.”

“I trust you, Peggy. If it weren’t for you, I’d be lost.” Literally and figuratively. “Hell, I’d still be back at the tour, oblivious. Thank you, Peg, really.”

Peggy smiles at him. “Well, as long as we’re clear on the situation. Let’s go find your Sergeant.” 

They move through the base together, dodging spotlights and patrols until they realize that there’s too much for them to search without splitting up. Peggy moves to the first building, what they’d identified as the administrative offices while Steve moves towards what they believe is the building most likely to hold the main workshops and barracks. If either of them are going to find intel, it’s gonna be her. Steve may have an eidetic memory, but he’s no spy. Peggy knows what material has value and what can be discarded. 

For this mission, he’s the muscle. And that means a break out. He times his entry into the building perfectly. Teams of black-clad Hydra agents patrol the perimeter, but none of them seem particularly alert. It’s born from a complacency of being on well guarded base. They don’t think that _they_ have to be alert, there are plenty of other soldiers on alert. Numbers be damned, if your soldiers aren’t paying any attention, you may as well leave the front door open. Which is why all it takes is for Steve to time the frequency of the patrols and slip through unnoticed.

He moves through the building, a bit aimlessly if he’s honest, but it is his first mission and the place is huge. He crosses paths with a couple Hydra soldiers that he knocks unconscious...or kills...to be honest he’s not completely sure. He hasn’t really had the opportunity to spar with anyone to know exactly how much power to put into his punches.

He wanders until he hears the sound of men. And then the smell of unwashed bodies hits him and he knows he’s headed the right way. He sneaks into the room above the holding cells and easily takes care of the one guard. 

The men look up at him from their cells. Some curiously, many of them with open hostility and distrust. 

“Hey! Hey, Captain America!” comes a call from a few cells down. He moves to where the voice came from, leans down and sees a cell with a few GIs and a French soldier? And a man in a - 

“…Bowler hat? That can’t be regulation.”

The men share a look between them. Then Bowler hat responds. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen what you’re wearing on your head?”

“This is straight from Uncle Sam himself.”

“Great, guys, can we get to the part where we’re being rescued and you two can discuss criminal fashion choices later?” one of the other American soldiers asks.

“ _Criminal_ ? I’ll have you know, _Private Morita_ , that the Bowler hat -” 

“Jim...Jimmy Morita?”

“That’s me. You came for Bucky right?” 

“I came for everyone. But yes. Have you seen him? Is he here or is there a different prisoner bay?” He tries to keep the desperation in his voice to a ‘I’m looking for my best friend’ level instead of ‘I’m looking for the love of my life’ level and isn’t convinced he’s been successful.

The men look at each other with trepidation and Steve’s heart sinks. No. He would know if Bucky were dead. He may not have the shining like Bucky and his ma, but he would know if the other half of his soul were dead. “Where is he?”

“He was sick. Battlefield sickness. Fucking nothing but rain and mud for months here, right guys?” Bowler hat says.

“He couldn’t keep up with production. We tried to help, but they took him into the back labs. We haven’t seen him since,” Jim says.

Oh Buck. 

“Do you think, Captain, that you could drop the keys down so we can start exfil?”

“Great idea, Gabe,” Bowler hat says. 

Steve agrees, embarrassed momentarily of being distracted from all these men who also need his help. He drops the keys down to Gabe who turns and makes quick work of the door. He and another soldier, start on the other cells, speaking softly to one another in French. 

“I’m here with an agent. Her name is Agent Carter. As best you’re able, meet her at the treeline just outside the fence. She’ll give you orders from there.” 

“She will?” a man says walking out of the cell across the way.

“Yes, Corporal. _She_ will. And you’ll follow them, unless you want to stay here.” Steve turns his attention away.

“Let’s go, men!” Bowler hat says stepping out of the cell. 

“The labs are back that way.” Jim points and then smiles up at him. “You know, before he was your best friend, he was mine. Bring him back will you, Captain?”

“You’re damn right I’m bringing him back with me.” 

“He knew you were coming in February. Was really excited to see you. He wouldn’t shut up about it the whole way to Azzano.”

“Then I’d better not keep him waiting any longer.” 

The back halls are nearly deserted this late at night. Most of the lab staff must work a regular nine to five, he thinks bitterly. The few men and women he does encounter are taken care of easily and quickly. This time, he pulls his punches to half strength, so he doesn’t _think_ he killed them, but he finds that he doesn’t actually care either way. 

Some of the rooms he sees look nightmarish with rows of gurneys and equipment that doesn’t look...medical, while others look like his ma’s old hospital ward. 

_I know you two will take good care of one another_ , she’d written. 

“I’m trying, Ma,” he whispers to himself. 

Suddenly the hallways are bathed in red lights and an alarm begins blaring. “Guess that’s Peggy’s signal to get a move on. Ok, Bucky. Where are you?” 

He starts moving up the hallway faster, his heart rate picking up with panic. His mind frantically chants _find him find him find him_ when he nearly runs over a small man. The man, startled, clutches his briefcase to his chest. Steve takes a step towards him. 

“Stop,” the man hisses and Steve halts. “You do not care about me.” Steve feels an overwhelming confusion overtake him. He frowns at the man, and can’t think of a single thing out of the ordinary about him. He throws a quick salute to the man and turns to look into the room while the man’s footsteps grow softer and softer. 

He’s about to move on from the room when he hears a moan. He looks around again, past the row of beds and finds the doorway leading to another room, marked Labor 4. The moan comes again, along with a whispered string of numbers. 

He knows that voice. 

He rushes through the doorway and finds a single metal table centered in the room. It’s occupant stares up at the ceiling, uncomprehending and glassy eyed, murmuring his serial number over and over. He shivers as he enters the room. Even to Steve, who hasn’t felt cold since he stepped out of that chamber in Brooklyn, the room feels chilled. And Bucky, who’s only been allowed a thin blanket for warmth or for modesty, has lips that are tinged blue and a paleness to his face. He traces his fingers along the high cheekbones and nearly sobs. It feels like it’s been so long. He knows it’s only been five months, but it feels like they’ve been apart a lifetime and he’s not ever going to leave Bucky behind or let Bucky leave him behind again. 

“Bucky,” he whispers, interrupting the repetitive numbers. He gently turns Bucky’s face towards him in an attempt to catch his attention. “Come on now. It’s time to leave.” 

Bucky’s eyes clear and start to gain recognition. “Steve?” 

“There you are,” Steve says. “We need to get you out of here.” 

He makes short work of the manacles locked around Bucky’s wrists and ankles and helps him to sit up. Bucky grabs hold of his arms with more strength than Steve would have thought possible, and pulls him close.

“You’re here,” he says into Steve’s chest. “I can’t believe you’re actually here.”

“I’ll always come for you,” he tells Bucky. 

“Steve.”

“Yeah, Buck?”

“What’s the red light?”

“Oh! _Oh_. We’ve gotta go. Peggy’s waiting on us.”

He hoists Bucky up off the table while Bucky holds the blanket around his waist with one hand. 

“This used to be easier...when you were smaller,” Bucky tells him, arm awkwardly draped over his shoulder. .

“Right, well now you know what I had to go through.” They move through the lab. “Oh, look, clothes.” 

He lets go of Bucky, once he’s certain he won’t fold under his own weight, and digs through the bin of discarded clothing, handing Bucky items he thinks will fit.

“This wool top’s got tears in it.”

“I’m so sorry I didn’t hit up the men’s section on my way in.”

“You just want to keep me naked.”

“I just want to keep you _warm_. Now dress, it’s better than nothing.”

“Alright,” Bucky says.

“Ahh, here’s pants. No underwear though.”

“Underwear stayed on the bodies. These are dead men’s clothes. The underwear gets burned or buried with the corpse. They'd be full of piss and shit anyhow.”

“Oh.” He hadn’t thought of that. He looks down into the bin. All these men.

“Not your fault, Steve,” Bucky tells him. “You can feel bad. You can feel sorry for them. But you don’t got to feel guilty.”

All the things he can do now though...and instead of helping, he’s been singing and dancing...badly. 

“Stop it, Rogers,” Bucky says. “I did teach you how to dance better than that, you’ve got a point there.”

“Bucky!” 

Bucky frowns at him and hugs the clothes close. “Sorry. I wasn’t even _trying_ to look. The thought was just there. Maybe the serum made your thoughts louder?”

“God, I hope not.” His increased health has increased his libido and that means he pictures Bucky naked. A lot. 

“Any socks?” Bucky changes topics and Steve is _grateful._ He turns back to the bin and digs.

“Really, Captain Rogers, do you have no sense of urgency? The men outside are making their escape into the woods and I’ve been forced to come find you before this entire place blows up. Which will be very shortly so...what _are_ you doing?”

That last part is directed at Bucky, who’s desperately trying to keep the thin sheet around his waist while trying to pull his pants up underneath.

“Why,” Peggy starts, “is Sergeant Barnes naked?”

“Well Peggy, it’s not -” he starts.

“Nevermind. I’ve decided I don’t need to know at this time. In the future, Captain Rogers, not during missions.”

“That’s not -”

“Yes, ma’am. Not during missions, Steve,” Bucky smiles at him. What a jerk. Steve saves him and it doesn’t even buy him a five minute break. He can’t believe he missed him. Too bad he loves the guy so much.

“Here.” Steve tosses a pair of socks over to Bucky, who wrinkles his nose at them, but accepts them anyway. “Peggy, we’ll be out in a moment.”

Bucky sags a little when she leaves. 

“Come on wise-guy. Let me help you here.” He steadies Bucky while he pulls the rest of his clothes on. Once he’s dressed Steve pulls him close one more time before they leave.

“I love you,” he whispers into Bucky’s hair. “Let’s get out of here.”

* * *

“He ripped his face off?” Tim, formerly Bowler hat, DumDum Dugan asks, again.

“It was like a mask,” Steve tells him. 

“It was revolting. The outside a reflection of the inside,” Peggy says.

Bucky’s team looks at him from where they sit around the campfire, wide eyed and assessing. 

Steve sighs.

“I do not have one of those,” He grabs the skin of face and pulls it up and down. This seems to satisfy the men and they relax, while Peggy...Agent Carter when they’re with the men...rolls her eyes and smirks. And Bucky, he’s wrapped up in a blanket, dozing by his team, the exhaustion of the escape and watching Schmidt reveal his monstrous form on top of everything he’d been subjected to, taking its toll.

His team had been stunned to see Bucky alive at first and then overjoyed. Good news in a place where good news is a rarity. It uplifted the men to see one of them make it back and besides getting Bucky back for his own selfish reasons, it makes Steve proud that he was able to have a part in that.

Before sunrise the next morning Peggy leaves with Howard in the plane and five of the soldiers who are the worst off. Steve tries to convince Bucky to take a spot on the plane, but Bucky refuses, insisting that he already feels better, a lie - he looks terrible -, and that Steve needs him. Which is true, but besides the point.

Peggy rolls her eyes and Howard mumbles something about fondue under his breath while he hands Jim and Dugan his most up to date maps. Together, they make a plan, plotting out which route to take back down towards Allied territory. There are, as always, a multitude of variables to consider, but between Peggy’s intel and the strategies in his head, they come up with the best option.

“If I can convince Colonel Phillips to send a detachment to meet you, it’ll be along this course. Most likely around here,” Peggy points. “Please do try to keep to the plan.”

“I always follow the plan. I am the man with the plan,” he jokes. Peggy glares. “I promise we’ll keep to the plan, Agent Carter.” 

“You should take one of the big tanks,” Howard suggests. “I bet Phillips won’t even court martial you if you bring him a tank.” 

“That would be very inconspicuous,” he says with sarcasm. “We’re trying to get as far as possible without being noticed. But I think we might be able to get away with taking some trucks until we’re out of the mountains.”

“That’s less fun, but you have a point,” Howard says, playing with the small clip Steve had found while searching the factory.

Their small convoy leaves the farmhouse not long after Howard’s plane melts into the pre-dawn sky. Gabe, Monty and Jacques had spent the evening finding the soldiers with the best German and split them up among the trucks. Those riding up front dress in their stolen Hydra uniforms while the rest of the men move into the back of the troop carriers. He sits up front in the first truck with Gabe looking over the maps for the last time before they head out. 

The first day they make their descent out of the Austrian mountains and cross back into Italy without meeting a single Nazi patrol. The snow capped mountains are stunning to watch out the window. Before Project Rebirth, he was in the habit of focusing hard on landscapes and objects that he might want to draw later. It took his eyes longer to see certain details and longer to commit the image to memory. With the serum, the details are so crisp, the colors so vibrant, and the images are just there behind his eyelids for the taking. 

While he rides up front, Steve makes Bucky ride and sleep in the back of one of the trucks, despite his many _many_ protests. He can sit up front, he says. He can take a patrol. He can help. He can, he can, he can...

“You can eat more than that,” he tells Bucky, looking down at the barely touched can in Bucky’s thin hands. 

It’s just the two of them in the back of the truck. They’re at the end of day two of what they expect to be a five day journey. The trucks are pulled over into a small clearing, hidden away from the main road and the rest of the men are walking and stretching their legs from the hours spent on the road. They expect to be able to abandon the trucks early tomorrow and then start the next leg of their journey by foot. With luck and Peggy’s power of persuasion, they’ll meet up with whatever contingent Phillips sends out on day three or four, when they begin their trek through the woods. But, in order to make it through the woods…

“You need to eat more. Gotta get your strength up for the march.” 

Bucky sighs is a resigned little huff but he does tip the can back. “Mmmm. So good.”

“Oh, well good thing there’s more. I’ll just go,” he starts to get up when he feels the pressure of Bucky’s hand on his wrist. 

“Stay,” Bucky says seriously. He’d meant it only as a joke, but Bucky looks back at him with desperation. “ _Please_ , Steve. Don’t go. There will be time to feed me.”

“I’ll stay, Buck. Of course I’ll stay.” 

“We’ve barely had any time together the last couple days and I want a little time with you to myself before we get back to the main body. Because when we do, there’s going to be a lot of people who are going to want a piece of you.”

He moves down closer to Bucky and draws him close. One of the many perks of having such sensitive hearing now is that he can wrap Bucky up like he wants and not worry about any surprises. 

“Too bad for all those people that all my pieces belong to you.”

“Hmm, you do have very nice pieces. The best pieces around really,” Bucky tells him, leaning further into the embrace.

“I think I’ve seen better. This guy back home in Brooklyn…”

“Lenny?” Bucky supplies.

“Nope, not Lenny. This jerk who followed me around when we were kids. Insisted on making friends with me.”

“God, why?”

“Liked to bet against the house, I suppose.”

Bucky’s silent for a moment before he draws back and looks at Steve. “I feel like I’m in pieces. Not in a good way though.”

“It doesn’t matter. I still love them all and they belong to me. And I’ve got big arms and can hold all those pieces together for however long you need.”

Bucky drops his head back onto his chest and nods. “Ok.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gorgeous new moodboard from maximoffs!

The Howling Commandos come together over a round of drinks and a commitment to raze Hydra from the map. Bucky watches Steve make the pitch from the safety of his bar stool as the bar fills. The news must have made it around that Captain America is here because they all take one step in and zero in on Steve. Bucky, for his part, likes watching Steve work the room. He’s good at it. It was the same when they’d finally arrived back to camp in Italy. Some of the men flock to him, seeking out Steve to marvel at his incredible strength or just hoping that some of that charisma and popularity will rub off on them. But here or there, everyone, and Bucky means _everyone_ , naturally gravitates towards Steve when he’s in their vicinity. He was Sarah’s sunshine, but to everyone else, he’s the moon, controlling the tide of men and women. 

And, he’s so bright now. Brighter even, than when he stepped out of Howard’s machine. And that’s all Bucky. He can add that to his growing list of things about him that are changed. 

Whatever Arnim did to him in Austria, combining the power of the serum and the cube...he’s not the same anymore. 

_The serum amplifies everything that is inside, so good becomes great; bad becomes worse_ , Steve had explained. 

Bucky pinches the skin on his hands and rubs at his cheeks hard, secretly imagining the skin displacing and detaching from the muscle underneath. What grotesque monster would he be under his skin? The skin stays put. So where does that leave him? He’s never been as good as Steve, so greatness doesn’t factor in. But he’s no Johann either. Good becomes great, bad becomes worse...ordinary becomes more ordinary? Like throwing beige paint at a white wall. 

“He really is something, isn’t he?” Peggy says, pulling him from his thoughts. She’d swept into the bar not long after he and Steve had arrived and had quickly taken a spot next to Bucky. 

“It’s because he’s sincere. He really cares about the people around him,” he tells her. “Half of these men, no more like ninety-five percent of these guys...they would have never given Steve a second look before the serum. They wouldn’t have listened to him. Some of them would have tried to beat him up. The man they’re so willing to follow now has always been there.”

“You saw it,” Peggy says.

“So did you,” he tells her. “I trust you. I know when you’re looking out for him, it’s not just because of his celebrity status. I know you care.”

“ _I do_.” She pauses. “Is that why you wanted to meet with me?”

It is. He’d been thinking about what the rescue would mean for Steve...and for them. He wasn’t kidding before he left for training, when he told Steve that he knew that he’d have to share him with the world, nor when he told him in the back of the truck that when they got back to safety that everyone would want a piece of him.

“I have something to ask you. It would be a favor...but it's a big one and it would only be if you are completely on-board,” he says, fidgeting in his seat. He feels terrible for asking. He feels like all those fellas and soldiers who look at her and only see that she’s a woman. 

“And, what is this favor?” She turns to him and squares her shoulders. 

“He’s only going to get more and more attention. And eventually, when he keeps turning down offers from every gal around…”

“Suspicious arise,” she finishes for him after a moment, tapping her fingers on the bar. Bucky leaves her to fill in the blanks while he looks back over at Steve. They catch each other’s gaze and Steve smiles at him before getting pulled back into his discussion.

“It is quite a large favor,” Peggy says, looking from Steve to Bucky. “But, if you two are going to continue giving each other _those_ kinds of looks then it’s clear that you need me.”

He smiles over at her. “We need you regardless, but I’d feel a lot better with him in your hands.”

“And what does Steve think of this plan?” she asks, taking a sip of her drink.

He looks back over at Steve, breathtakingly striking in his uniform before throwing back the rest of his own drink. “I’ll let you know tomorrow after I tell him.”

* * *

“You gonna stay mad at me all night?” he asks Steve. 

“It would have been nice if you would have consulted me about my love -”

“-fake-” he interjects.

“ _\- fake_ love life.”

“I wanted to float it past Peggy first. You can always say no, Steve.”

“I’m not gonna say no, Buck,” Steve says. “It’s just. What are Peggy and I supposed to do? Kiss? Hold hands?”

“No kissing,” he says quickly. Steve raises an eyebrow. “Unless it’s necessary. I trust Peggy to know when that’s the case. But I thought we could make your relationship more obvious in a less hands-on way.”

He crosses Steve’s room and opens his bag to retrieve what will become the cornerstone of Steve and Peggy’s relationship. He reluctantly hands it over. 

“Peggy is finding a picture to go inside,” he tells Steve.

“No.” Steve looks at him from where he’s sitting. “This was your pa’s.”

The compass had come home from the Great War with his pa. It had made the journey from Brooklyn to Indiana and back again. And then it had been hidden away by his sister, one of the very few possessions he has left. 

“I think it’s better this way, actually. This way, you have something from me as well.”

Steve nods, finally seeing reason. “We put the picture in and I make sure to have it out where anyone can see it.”

“That’s it. So easy even you can do it,” he teases. 

“Jerk,” Steve laughs out before looking at him seriously once again. “Are you sure? I know how much this compass means to you.”

“I’m sure.”

“I wish I had something to give you in return.”

“You punk. You are my compass. You’re the bright light that guides me. I can never go astray as long as I have you.” 

* * *

_Howard Stark_ , Bucky can hardly believe it’s really him, gifts Steve a new shield made of Vibranium that the idiot immediately paints a target onto. He and Steve spend one afternoon throwing the shield around Howard’s lab before Peggy escorts them out, gives them access to a training center outside of London, and tells them not to come back until they are competent at throwing the shield without killing anyone they weren’t intent on killing. The rest of the Howlies meet them there a day later and they come up with a ‘Captain’s Crash Course’. 

“I did go through some training,” Steve tells them.

“What, two months?” Tim says from his bunk. 

“I have an eidetic memory now.”

“I heard you jumped on a grenade,” Gabe says, unimpressed.

Steve looks over at him accusingly. Bucky throws his hands up front of him defensively, “I didn’t say a thing.”

“We need to learn to be a team,” Jim says. “This will be a good start.”

“Alright,” Steve concedes, “what’s first?”

“Land Nav,” They all say together.

Steve groans and drops onto Bucky’s bunk dramatically. “I’m never going to hear the end of that.”

It takes one day for Steve to master land navigation on the map. The following day, Bucky takes Steve out in the woods onto a pre-set course for the day. At the final location, deep in the woods and just before sunset, he gives Steve a reward for getting a perfect score.

“We weren’t keeping any scores,” Steve says.

“Shut up, Steve,” he says as he sinks to his knees. “And enjoy your prize.”

Mastering everything else put in front of him doesn’t take Steve long. The serum didn’t make him smarter, Bucky will fight anyone that says differently, but it’s made learning and retaining faster and better. Land navigation is a walk in the park, because Steve can see the map more clearly and see all the colors on the map. He can run the course, because he doesn’t have asthma to fight. 

He excels at hand-to-hand combat, leaving all of the men with bruising from their matches. 

“Stop looking so guilty,” he tells Steve that night in Steve’s room.

“You all have bruises from me. I think DumDum was limping,” Steve says, dejected.

“Steve, all of those guys get to go out to the bar and tell _everyone_ how they got to spar with Captain America today. You have nothing to worry about.”

“And what about you?” Steve asks, gently prodding one of bigger bruises on Bucky’s thigh.

“ _Honey_ , you know how much I like wearing your bruises,” he says, leaning in for a kiss.

It was a good exercise. It’s important for Steve to know his strength. Not only does he need to know how strong he is, he also needs to know how to be gentle. Steve would feel terrible if he ever really hurt someone by accident. 

Jacques and the others take him through various weapons but in the end leave him with a handgun. Steve can physically carry any of the weapons, but it’ll be easier for him to work with the handgun while carrying the shield. As for the shield…

“It’s not going to do you much good if you keep embedding it in everything,” Jim calls out to Steve, who’s pulling the shield out of another tree.

“There’s not going to be much of a forest left around here soon,” adds Monty.

“You guys are hilarious,” Steve calls back, ripping the shield from the tree. 

“You need to choose your targets better. Choose materials that’ll ricochet the shield back to you instead of…” Gabe gestures to the tree, which finally loses its battle to stay upright and crashes to the ground. 

Bucky rubs at his head. Everyone’s thoughts are so _loud_ this morning. Maybe this will take his thoughts off...everyone else’s thoughts. 

“Well, let’s go see what we can use to work on your angles,” he tells Steve. They find some decommissioned tanks and an empty warehouse and spend the afternoon watching Steve bounce the shield off of walls. Bucky makes some initial corrections, marks some places for Steve to aim at, but it doesn’t take long for Steve to catch on.

“I just want to know how the hell you know how to correct _him_ ,” Tim asks him.

“You’re wondering how your sniper is good at angles and velocity, Tim?” Monty asks.

“I get that the Sarge is good at that. I’ve watched him in action. But some of those trick shots you have him doing are...complex.”

Bucky opens his mouth to answer, but finds he can’t, Zola’s last order still clinging to him. Instead he smirks over at Tim and responds, “I’m just that good. Don’t be jealous, we’ve all got our roles to play.” 

The Commandos’ rotate out of England soon after and Italy looks just as bad as when they left it. Their first missions are small and kept undercover; they are, after all, still getting the hang of working together as a unit. But by the time they rack up their fourth successful mission, Colonel Phillips says it’s time for bigger and more noteworthy missions.

The press, as expected, goes wild for Steve. He’d already been something of a media darling back in the States, but now he’s more popular than ever. Yet again, Steve takes it all in stride and somehow manages to make time for everyone. The increase in exposure culminates in a film crew following Steve and the rest of the team around for an entire month and he decides that it’s the perfect time and opportunity to declare Steve off limits. He talks to Peggy one last time and then makes certain that the next time the crew is filming, that the compass is out and on display for the world to see. 

* * *

It feels like he’s starting over and he hates it. All of _his_ research had been in those labs. And Johann had blown the entire place up. Arnim had been lucky to save the data he did. He’d been lucky to spend one last precious moment with James.

James, who had been rescued by Abraham’s experiment. How fitting. 

“Arnim, here you are. Johann and I were expecting you.”

“Aleksander. My apologies. I was just finishing up here.”

Aleksander moves from bench to bench, touching the empty flasks and beakers as he walks by. “You’re not still angry over the weapons plant? You’ll bounce back. A man as brilliant as you should have no problems.”

“It is not about my ability to bounce back... I had him, Aleksander. I had him, and he got away.” He’s hardly ever felt so angry in his long long life, or at least in his most recent memories. 

“It’s a shame, yes. But, it is time to look forward. You can recreate your serum here and make a new soldier.”

“He was special. He was perfect for _us.”_

“For Hydra?”

“ _Hydra_ ,” he scoffs. “Hydra is a vehicle for our family. He, subject sixty one, he’s the key. He could feed Invictus for _generations_.”

“ _Hydra_ is the key to our survival,” Aleksander says. “We, Invictus, the family, need to follow Johann’s plan. We deserve to rule over humans. Not, living in their shadow. You’ll make a new supersoldier for us. One to rival the American. And then, we will rise and live forever.”

He sounds so much like Johann. Except…

“We do not live forever, Aleksander. Eat well, live _long_. Johann and I, we have lived a very long time. But we do die. In the end, we all die.” 

* * *

Bucky tries to understand how the serum is changing him.

If Steve’s serum had enhanced his relationship with the physical world then Bucky’s version had enhanced his of that invisible world his shine connects with. He feels everything more acutely...more sharply. Abilities that he used to put effort into, happen almost naturally now. Abilities that he thought he had lost, are back again. He can actually _see_ spirits leave their bodies. He sees them ripped from their body and dragged...elsewhere, not to the Beyond. He sees spirits knocked right out of their disintegrating bodies. He now has a shelf-full of tomes in his mind, housing some of the most angry and vile ghosts he’s ever encountered. He finds himself drifting to the shadows, using his shine to hide him when he doesn’t want to talk, which is happening with increased frequency. 

He begins to push the limits of his abilities in ways he’d never done before. Steve lifts a motorcycle, a truck, a _tank._ Bucky practices walking through the officer’s mess, mid-supper, unnoticed, then a general’s brief, then a small scouting squadron of Hydra. 

He leaves them dead in the snow and wanders the ten miles back to their camp. He walks past Jim without a word and stands silent by the campfire for a half hour before he hears Steve ask Monty if he’s seen Bucky. Monty shakes his head and a call for him goes around their little camp.

He looks down to his hands, at the rest of his body. He touches his face, tugs at his hair so hard it stings his scalp. _I’m here_ , he thinks, over and over again. He thinks back to the clearing and the Hydra soldiers and the bright red blood seeping into the damp forest floor. 

Steve walks by him with a frown, says his name under his breath, both a curse and prayer.

Maybe he didn’t kill the soldiers. Maybe the blood is his and he’s stuck here. No one came to get him. No one came to show him to the other side and there’s no one like him to tell him or guide him or push him. 

His lips and fingers start to tingle, go numb and he can’t pull a breath into his chest. Do spirits do that? Why had he never asked before? At last his chest loosens enough for him to pull in a breath and then it’s quick breaths...in, out, in, out, in, out...he can’t feel his face but his teeth are chattering and his legs feel as weak as they did back in Austria. He sinks to the ground and stabs his fingers into the dirt. He claws at it so it gets under his nails.

“Bucky?” Steve says softly again, head tilting, straining to hear. “Are you here?” 

Bucky looks over at Steve and Steve is looking back at him. He’s not focused on Bucky, but he’s looking down at the dirt, where Bucky sits.

“I can’t see you...but I think I can hear you?” Steve says.

Bucky closes his eyes and thinks back again. He walked into the middle of the Hydra camp and he’d killed the soldiers. They never saw him. They didn’t have a chance. And then Bucky had left to return back to their camp. He’d walked back the ten miles in a haze. He’d walked back…

He looks inward and finds that his shine is wrapped snug around his body, close, like a second skin, closer than it's ever been before. He unwraps himself from his shine. 

Steve kneels down to him. “Bucky…” 

Steve will want an explanation. How will he tell Steve that he didn’t realize that he was still hiding? 

“Buck?” he says again, reaching out for him. “Come inside.”

He lets Steve help him off of the ground and steer him toward Steve’s tent. He makes Bucky sit down on his cot and then disappears out the tent flap. 

“Boots off,” Steve says sternly once he’s back in.

Bucky complies...he’s good at compliance. Doctor Zola had said so. He grabs at his hair again, and god he would scoop all the parts of his brain that man had touched if he could. 

“Here you go, Cap,” Tim says from the tent flap. He hands over a warmed C-Rat to Steve and Bucky can smell it from where he sits.

“Thanks, DumDum,” Steve says as Tim leaves.

“Pork and beans?” Bucky wrinkles his nose. 

“And-” Steve says, digging into his pocket.

“Chocolate?” Bucky asks excitedly and he knows he’s right when he sees Steve’s smirk. “Wait, how long have you had chocolate?”

“I was saving it for the right time. Like for when I would need to bribe my boyfriend into eating and sleeping.”

Steve hands over the can. He stares down at the sad meal. Oh well, for chocolate. Steve turns back to the tent flap and starts fastening the buckles.

“What about our rotations?” Bucky asks.

“They’ll be fine for one night Buck. You need sleep.”

“But-”

“They’ll feel better if they know you’re sleeping. Do this for them and for me. And let them do this for you.”

“They’ve done a lot for me already.”

“Someone once told me that’s what having a team is all about.”

“That’s smart.” 

“Yeah, Peggy is brilliant.”

He scoffs at Steve. _He_ told Steve that first. Oh well, Peggy is brilliant. Steve clears his throat, folds his massive arms, and raises an eyebrow at the can. Bucky rolls his eyes but brings the can to his mouth and tips it back. It’s...disgusting, and he tries to swallow as much as he can without tasting it. He _really_ wants that chocolate.

He finishes the can and turns it upside down to prove to Steve that he’s eaten and then holds his hand out.

“Lay down,” Steve tells him. “I said eat _and_ sleep.”

He rolls his eyes, but scoots back on Steve’s cot and glares at him as he slowly levers himself down. The jerk just smiles back like he’s amused by Bucky. Once he’s settled, Steve drapes a wool blanket over him and tucks him in. 

“Are you done?” he asks Steve.

“Almost. Open up,” Steve taps him on the chin. 

Bucky smirks. “Why, Captain…”

Steve rolls his eyes again and reaches back into his pocket. 

“Oh, even better.” 

“Hey. That’s not nice.”

“Baby, why don’t balance a piece of chocolate on your dick and give me the best of both worlds.”

“That sounds messy. How about...you sleep and eat for the entire week and it’s a deal. Wait...you eat and sleep to my standards for the entire week and I’ll feed you chocolate and then you can ride my...”

“Jesus, Stevie.”

“That a yes?”

“That is one helluva yes. Sir, yes, sir.”

“Good. Now,” Steve taps his chin again, “open up. And listen up.”

He opens his mouth and Steve drops a piece of chocolate onto his tongue. 

“I won’t ask you if you want to go home again. I know you won’t.”

He closes his mouth and sucks. The chocolate dissolves and he sighs with contentment.

“And I won’t ask you what happened to you while you were there. When you were separated. But you can tell me, if you ever want.”

He does want. God, does he want. He wants to lay his head on Steve’s absurdly large pectorals and tell him everything that happened. He wants to tell him what Arnim did to him, the things he whispered. But he can’t. 

_It’s our little secret, yes? It is only between you and me._ Those had been the last words, the last command, Zola had spoken to him before he grabbed his briefcase and left. And he had pushed so hard that Bucky had been left in a daze until Steve brought him around.

And now he’s stuck with the command. He’s not certain for how long, but he still can’t force the words out. No matter how much he wants.

Steve breaks another bit off of the bar and Bucky wets his lips before opening his mouth. He hears Steve murmur something about Bucky being a menace as he drops the next piece onto his tongue.

“But you gotta promise me that you’ll be careful,” Steve says and Bucky nearly chokes on his chocolate. “No, listen. I know what you’re going to say but, I’ve got you and the others to have my back. When you disappear like that, I can’t watch out for you. None of us can. So I need you to promise me that you’ll be careful.”

“I’ll be careful,” he tells Steve. 

“Promise?”

“I do. I promise.” He closes his eyes. The weight of Zola’s order is exhausting. Feeling the shame of the camp is exhausting. He’d like to go a night without thinking about Zola, who spent hours whispering in Bucky’s ear. Telling him how good he’s doing, how proud he’s making Arnim.

 _Say thank you_ , Arnim would tell him. And Bucky would because the first order that Arnim gave him was to comply. And Bucky...he can be so good at compliance.

“Sleep, honey,” Steve whispers into his ear, chasing the memory of Zola’s voice away and sending him into a deep slumber. 

* * *

He’s more careful after that.

They spend the summer taking down base after base, hunting Johann and Zola, who remain elusive.

He keeps his wanderings to a minimum and Steve always knows where he’s headed and for how long. In fact, Steve is insistent on knowing everything he’s doing with his shine. He’d been annoyed at first, but it actually makes him feel better, being able to talk through what he can do even if he still hasn’t been able to break through Zola’s last order and tell him _what_ Zola did. 

He learns how to use his abilities to their advantage and Steve learns how to be a leader. Not just the tasks and taking the meetings. He learns how to make the tough decisions, ones that cost lives. He takes responsibility when missions don’t go as planned and shares the commendations when they put Hydra on the run.

Peggy comes and goes depending on her own missions. She joins in if there’s intel she’s interested in getting. She always stays as long as she can, keeping the appearance of her relationship with Steve going. But he suspects, and only suspects because he did _not_ snoop, because she would _murder him,_ that she’s really there to spend time with a certain communications and language expert. He never asks either of them but he does make sure to run any necessary interference for the two of them. 

Steve makes time for him in between meetings and missions; holds him together on nights he doesn’t feel whole, when it feels like Azzano was days ago instead of months. On nights when he’s flying high on adrenaline and feels invincible, Steve takes him apart, calming his body and his mind. 

He is simply, in Bucky’s opinion, the most amazing man alive.

In the fall, they make it all the way to Florence, newly freed by South Africa. Steve is two hundred pounds of excitement, pulling him and the rest of the guys to the Duomo. Later, when the rest of the guys have taken off, he brings Steve’s sketchbook out and they roam around the city on their own, stopping whenever and wherever Steve wants. Steve sits and sketches until the sun starts to set and then he puts it aside. They sit as close as they dare and watch the sun sink, throwing off oranges, pinks and purples.

“You should draw this,” he tells Steve.

“Someday. It’s all up here,” he taps the side of his head, “I want to experience this with you.” 

Fall disappears into winter and a chill settles under his skin. Every advancement puts them closer to Austria and it’s as if his body _remembers._

They celebrate Christmas in the field, just him, Steve and the Howlies. It’s cold and wet from a fresh snowfall, but they’re all together. _He and Steve_ are together. Which is so much better than last Christmas when Steve was in California and Bucky had been in Zola’s lab. 

They bring in the new year by taking out another Hydra base. He and the Howlies surprise Steve by singing “Star Spangled Man with a Plan” as Jacques rigs the plant to blow in an over the top spectacle. 

On the edge of a small town, he sits watching Steve show a group of kids how to throw the shield. His current protégé is a small blonde boy that kicks up the most intense feeling of fondness in Bucky. Steve looks back at him with a blinding smile before going back to showing the boy the best way to throw it. All the Howlies know to stay behind Steve while he’s teaching, because he likes to ‘help’ the kids throw. Which means the village is losing a couple trees today.

“I see Steve is back in the entertaining business,” Peggy says, taking a seat next to him.

“I bet he likes this crowd more than the ones he was selling war bonds to.”

“I agree. He rarely looked happy on tour.”

They sit in silence, watching Steve help another little girl throw the shield. The crowd of children cheer on as another tree is destroyed. 

“We weren’t expecting to see you for another week or two,” he tells her. “Do you have a mission?”

Peggy pauses, turns and looks at him, a concerned frown across her brow. “I have intel...solid intel of Doctor Zola being moved.”

“What kind of intel?”

He blows into his hands and rubs them together.

“This kind we need to act on,” she says.

“We’ve been chasing Schmidt and Zola for almost a year now. What’s different this time?”

“We’ve never tried capturing him on a moving train, up in the Alps.”

The Alps. Great. He turns his head and looks in the distance, sees the outline of the mountains and barely suppresses a shudder. Maybe though, maybe he’s thinking about it wrong. They go to the mountains and catch Zola and put him in a deep dark hole, or better yet, put him in the ground. And then he gets his first restful nights sleep in nearly a year.

“Well, Agent Carter,” he says, turning her way, “it’s time to break out the earplugs.” 

* * *

The tent they share is cold but at least is a sufficient buffer from the biting wind that’s whipping through the mountains. After they’ve finished going over tomorrow’s plan one more time, the team splits off to their own tents leaving him and Steve alone. 

“We’re going to get him. Tomorrow we’ll have Zola and he’s going to pay for everything he’s done. And then we get Schmidt.” Steve sounds more determined than ever. He’s worked hard to put this plan together. He and Peggy have gone over the intel repeatedly to verify its authenticity. Steve is prepared and ready to go.

He looks and Steve has packed his maps carefully away. Prep work is finished. There’s nothing left to do but do the mission.

Steve kneels beside him and lays his hands on Bucky’s knees. “You’re quiet tonight.”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I...I’ve got such a bad feeling about tomorrow, but I can’t figure out if it’s my shining or if it’s just the thought of facing Zola again.”

Steve brings a hand to Bucky’s cheek and strokes it gently. “Everything is going to be fine. We’ll be together this time.”

He takes a deep breath and then releases it. He nods his head and looks into Steve’s eyes. He didn’t have Steve last time. They have a great team in the Commandos. They have the brilliance of Stark and Peggy. They’re gonna be fine.

“We’re gonna be fine.” He nods again. He leans into the feeling of Steve’s hand on his cheek. Steve pushes up off the ground, kisses him gently, and then leans his forehead against Bucky’s.

“We’re gonna be fine,” Steve repeats. “I love you, Bucky Barnes.”

“I love you too, Steve Rogers.”

* * *

Turns out, Bucky was right about that bad feeling.

* * *

_Bucky,_ he thinks as the train car explodes around him.

His ears ring from the detonation. When his vision clears he can see the mountains rushing by. 

_Bucky_ , he thinks again. 

Before he’s even pushed himself up off the floor of the train, Bucky is back up on his feet, holding the shield, advancing and firing at the Hydra soldier.

And then the unimaginable happens.

 _No no no no no,_ his mind screams.

He throws himself to the edge of the car and Bucky clings to the railing looking up to him. 

He’s just gotta get to him. He’s just gotta hold him. 

He feels their fingertips brush. For the briefest of moments, he has him...he has him. 

It’s the closest he’ll ever be to Bucky again. The railing gives and their fingertips part.

* * *

An American breaks into Schnellzug and holds them at gunpoint. He gives the man an order but the American only smiles and taps his ears.

“Can’t follow your orders if I can’t hear you,” he laughs.

_“What happens if I’m captured, Johann,” he’d asked the night before._

_“It will be fine, Arnim. I will come for you. Until then, think of it as a deployment. Plant the seeds of Hydra in the United States.”_

Arnim holds up his hands and surrenders.

“I was wrong,” he says down into his drink.

“What were you wrong about, Steve.” Peggy walks further into the bar, or what’s left of the bar. Fitting, that he’d seek out the birthplace of the Howling Commandos, the place where Bucky had told him yet again that he’d follow Steve anywhere, only to find it a bombed out husk. 

“I thought that if Bucky died...that I’d know it. I’d feel it.. I watched him fall and it _hurts_ so bad. But I don’t feel _severed_ from him.”

“I’m so sorry, Steve,” she chokes out. He’s never seen Peggy cry. He knows she must, they all do. But he knows that it would be used against her if she showed that degree of emotion out in the open. 

In the safety of this destroyed pub, with Steve’s hand in hers, Peggy Carter cries with him. 

* * *

They find the American soldier washed along the shore of the Inn River. 

Despite Sergei’s insistence that the man is dead, Vasily can sense the smallest glimmer of shine in him. Usually when any of their family finds someone with the shining to feed from, they do it together. There’s a certain ritualistic quality to the purification and feeding that strengthens their bond. 

But, Vasily thinks, this one is quite old. No real reason to keep him alive just to hand him over later, especially if he’s stale. Nobody likes stale shine. So it won’t hurt the family if he just has a little taste on his own. And if the old American isn’t so stale after all, then nobody in the family needs to know. 

“Sergei, go back to our post and call this in,” he says. Sergei looks unsure, but in the end does what Vasily says. Some humans are so weak willed that he doesn’t even have to use any of his abilities. “Oh, Sergei! Report it to the Hydra Division.”

This does give Sergei pause. Maybe not so weak willed after all. Oh well, no matter. He gives Sergei a little push, no, not even a push, just a nudge. “Do as I say, Sergei.”

“Yes, Comrade Karpov,” he says and then rushes off again. 

Now, let us see what we have here. He makes it to the shore and looks over the man for a moment before deciding that he could use a little more cover to do his work. With one boot under each of his armpits, Vasily drags the man out of the river and up the shoreline until they’re protected by thick forest growth. He drops the boots roughly and turns.

What remains of the left arm is in tatters. The bone of his humerus peaks through shredded muscle and fat. Vasily hovers over the man’s face. With a push, a real push this time, he says, “Wake up.”

The man’s eyes fly open with awareness. His blue tinged lips move but the cold has rendered speech too far beyond him for the moment. 

“Shhhh,” Vasily says. “I’m just going to take a small taste.”

His fingers slide through bloody muscle and jagged bone and he _squeezes_ . A broken cry comes from the man, but no steam. He relaxes his grip for a moment before tightening it again. Another cry...and _there_. A wisps of steam escapes past the man’s lips. Vasily quickly leans over and presses his mouth against the American’s mouth and squeezes again. This time when he screams, Vasily gets a mouth full of steam and inhales deeply. The steam he takes in is the purest he’s had in years. It’s incomprehensible. The steam from this man should be stagnant from sitting unused. 

Vasily sits back in stunned silence, contemplating his next move. He could follow his initial plan and take the steam for himself. But, this could be big steam. Vasily’s just not sure. That’s not where his talents lie. He can push a bit and he can read memories, but he can’t tell if a kid is going to keep them fed for months or decades. He surely doesn’t have the time or supplies to properly harvest. 

Vasily closes his eyes and puts a hand on the man’s chest. He can at least try to get some answers. He concentrates on the man’s mind, where he came from, how he is the way he is. 

He’s on a train. _Zola’s_ train. There’s smoke and he’s picking up a...shield. There’s a blast and he’s thrown from the train. Captain America tries to get to him but he’s too late. He’s falling. 

Further back. 

He’s firing from his sniper’s perch with deadly accuracy. He looks out for everyone on his team but especially Steve, because he’s an _idiot and impulsive...never waits for backup_. 

He pushes further. 

He’s kissing and there’s hands all over him and _yes please don’t stop, Steve_. Interesting, something to come back to, but not what he’s looking for at the moment. 

Again.

 _I can’t believe you’re actually here._ There. Captain America is there again, but that’s not what he’s interested in. He recognizes this place. These are Arnim’s labs. Vasily had been there for a while before he was sent to infiltrate the Soviets. This man may be one of Arnim’s experiments. Perhaps even a successful one. 

He looks back to the man’s face. His pupils are blown wide from the pain. “St...st...st…” he says.

“I’ll stop, for now. But soon this is all you’ll know,” he says.

“Comrade Karpov!” Sergei yells. “We’re to bring him in immediately.”

“Grab a leg. We’ll drag him together,” Vasily says as they start towards their post, leaving a bloodied trail behind them in the snow. 


	12. Chapter 12

The man who pulled him from the river, who put his hand inside what remained of Bucky’s arm, and who put his mind inside of Bucky’s memories, smiles as he saws off more of Bucky’s arm. They don’t give him anything for the pain, not during the amputation or during the stitching. 

He wakes up in a new room. There’s a new man yelling at the man who smiled while sawing Bucky’s arm off and the man who held him down. He doesn’t understand Russian but Bucky lucks out and the patient next to Bucky translates for him.

“Doctor Tsimmerman is chastising them for their sloppy work with your amputation. Now he’s going to have to remove more of the bone to fix their mistake.”

“Oh god,” Bucky whispers, “please knock me out this time.”

“Sorry, friend,” he whispers back, “it sounds like they want you awake for this. Well, for as long as you stay conscious I guess.” He shrinks away as Doctor Tsimmerman approaches. 

Without sparing Bucky a glance, the doctor pulls at his bandages and exposes the badly healing flesh. He holds a hand out for a scalpel, “Давай начнем.” 

He spends the next three hours slipping in and out of consciousness as the doctor takes more of his arm. Words are beyond him. He tries to move his consciousness out of himself, look for Steve, look for his rescue, but every cut of flesh and crack of his bones pulls his focus back inward. He should be dead, god he wants to be dead so badly. And he’s so sorry to wish it because he wants to see Stevie again with all of his heart, but it’s true. It hurts so much. Bucky swears that the doctor stops when he’s passed out only to begin again when he comes to, prolonging the agony. Finally, when the last stitch is in place and the doctor appears satisfied, he turns away from Bucky to the observers. 

“Убери его,” the doctor says as he walks out the door. 

With the doctor out of sight, the other patient makes his way back to Bucky’s side. “That was difficult to watch, friend.”

“Wasn’t great to go through either, pal,” he croaks out. 

The man who sawed his arm before the doctor snarls at him, “Молчи.”

“I don’t know Russian,” Bucky says back. 

“He says to shut up,” the other patient says.

Another wave of pain washes over him. “Good idea. Smart,” he says and then passes out.

When he comes to, it’s to the sound of slamming doors and equipment. He’s been pushed off to the side of the room, forgotten but for the other patient. 

“What’s happening?” Bucky asks. The other man, frail and thin in his hospital gown looks down at him with sorrow.

“Something’s happened. They’re worried. They’re moving you,” he says.

Bucky smiles. Steve’s coming for him. That’s why they’re worried. They should be. Steve’s going to kill them. 

The Russian soldiers approach him and talk quickly over him. He looks at the other man. “What?” he asks.

“No..nothing. I’m sorry, friend. I’m sorry. It was so nice...getting to talk to someone again.”

“What?” Bucky says in confusion as the soldiers pull him from the table. The other patient stands in the midst of the chaos, unseen, unheard, then flickers and disappears. 

* * *

Bucky hears the slot open to his cell followed by the sound of his meal roughly being pushed through. He rolls his head to the side in time to see the cup of water tilt precariously before losing its battle with gravity and spill over the ground. He pushes aside the stiffness and aches in his body and pushes himself over slowly to his side. 

Over the years, long before Bucky became the occupant here, the heavy iron door of his cell dragged against the cement of the floor, leaving deep gashes. When he reaches out for his meal, it snags at his paper thin skin. It’s a small price to pay to be close enough to the door that he doesn’t have to expend any of the energy he’s losing at a rapid and alarming rate. All he has to do is reach his arm over and snag the bread. As for the water? Jokes on them. He’s barely strong enough to lift the plastic cup of water, so they saved him the trouble of trying. He’ll just drink it straight from the floor.

He pushes his lips to the cement and sips as much as he can before using the bread to soak up the remaining. He pops a soggy bit of the bread into his mouth, sucking at it and letting his head fall back to the cold ground. When the bread has dissolved into nothing but a sticky clump in his mouth, he chews and swallows slowly. The guards are inconsistent with their meal deliveries and he’s trying his best to keep his strength up. Fighting his way out of this place with Steve is a fantasy as long gone as his muscle mass at this point, but he should at least try to be conscious when the Commandos come for him.

The slot opens again, far too soon, startling him from his thoughts.

A tray, an actual tray slides into view. He looks at the food suspiciously. Slowly, he reaches out and pulls the tray towards his body. Another slice of bread, but fresher than the dried out husk he usually gets and a small metal bowl of thin watery porridge. With no spoon he’s left to tilt the bowl as carefully as he can to meet his lips. It’s not hot, not even what he would have considered warm by any stretch of the imagination before, but it tastes like heaven. He slurps messily at the bowl.

“Take it slow or you will make yourself ill,” a familiar voice comes from outside the door. “You do not have to answer me. I know you will listen.”

It’s the soldier from the woods. The one that pulled him from the river and took part of his arm. Damn right he’s not going to talk to that fucking monster.

“I am sorry it took me so long to get back to you. There’s much work to be done and we’ve hit some unfortunate obstacles. But I am here now and I will make you healthy enough to start the experiments again. Healthy for Dr. Zola.”

The porridge turns sour in his mouth. He stares at the door, waiting for the man to say more but he’s met with silence. He looks back to the bowl, conflicted. Gaining his strength back means revisiting the experiments and torture of the factory. But it also means gaining back the ability to use his shining. And...maybe being strong enough to contact Steve.

It’ll be a race between them then. He lifts the bowl and takes another sip. A race he intends to win. 

* * *

Steve looks around the cockpit...or what’s left of it. Most of the controls have been destroyed in the fight, but the plane maintains its course towards New York. He sits down heavily in the pilot's chair, grabs hold of the radio receiver and contemplates his choices. 

He could jump. With the serum, he should survive the fall. He could survive the cold, heal, then...what? Swim towards a shoreline? He looks down through the shattered window and sees nothing but the vast and empty ocean around him. But that leaves the plane on its course. 

He could attempt to land away from any populated areas. He could find a nice open field somewhere. He looks towards the back of the plane. What’s the blast radius of what he’s got on board? 

He could...put the plane down here. It would be the safest option and New York would remain untouched. He could keep his home, the streets and buildings that hold his most precious memories, safe. He cannot fathom being able to step foot there again, but he could keep it safe for others. 

It’s a surprisingly easy decision to make actually. The grief and loneliness in his heart feels unsurmountable. 

He leans over the console again and checks the sea below. His hair whips around his face as the cold wind batters his face. His eyes sting and he’s suddenly hit with an intense feeling of déjà vu. He’s waiting on that ledge with Bucky again, waiting for the train that would ultimately lay waste to Steve’s life. If he closes his eyes he can imagine leaning into the warm bulk of the best man he’s ever known. 

He closes his eyes. He can do this one last thing and be finished. Because he knows that they go on. Bucky had seen Winnie and George reunited. He’d seen Steve’s mother. When Steve dies, it’ll be to join Bucky and his mother. 

Nothing on this side of existence can compare. 

“Steve? Steve, are you there?” Peggy’s voice crackles through the radio. He looks down at the receiver in his hand. He wipes at his eyes. He considers not answering, but Peggy deserves more than that. His friends deserve more. 

He clears his throat the best he can and then answers, “I’m here, Peggy.”

“Steve! Are you alright?” she asks. 

“Schmidt is dead. The tesseract fell into the sea. The bombs are still armed, Peggy and the plane is on autopilot to New York.”

“Steve…,” she starts, “we’ll find you somewhere to land. Can you tell us where you are?”

“There’s not much left of the console. It was a hell of a fight in here,” he laughs, “I’m lucky that the radio is working.”

“That’s alright. We know you’re headed towards New York. We should be able to coordinate with the United States government to find you as you get closer.”

“That’s a big risk,” he tells her, “and not one I’m willing to take.”

“Hey,” she says softly. “You don’t have to do this. We can find a way.”

“It’s alright, Peggy. I know the right path to take.” He straightens up in the chair. Prepares himself for what comes next. “Thank you, Peg. For everything.”

“Stev-” he turns the radio off and gently places the receiver back into its cradle. 

He takes the yoke in his hands and gives it a firm push. 

* * *

Bucky wakes up with a scream stuck in his chest. 

Screaming in this place is not an irregular occurrence for him now, but it’s usually when he’s strapped to a table and having bits of him cut into. This pain...it’s his soul dying. It’s his soul being ripped from this world. Of all the bad feelings he’s ever had, this is the worst. He claws at his chest trying to rip the feeling right out of him. Get it away, get it  _ out,  _ oh god he doesn’t want to feel this. He gulps at the air like a drowning man and moans. He grabs at his hair and pulls to feel any other sensation other than this torture.

He focuses on his shine. It’s now or never. 

He pushes and pulls at it to get it to  _ move...do something... _ and it finally does. He feels it slither around in his chest, uncoiling, awakening from a protective slumber. He slams his eyes shut and breathes through the terror coursing through his body and looks for Steve’s ever present light. Bucky knows Steve’s shine by heart. With enough strength, he can find Steve anywhere. His consciousness swings above a dark frozen tundra and rushes towards the sun. The world rotates underneath him, specks of light here and there steak across his awareness but he keeps his concentration fixed on one point ahead of him. It takes him a moment to realize that he and Steve are rushing toward each other, on a collision course of the best kind. At last, with so much of his strength used up, he’s there with Steve in the destroyed cockpit of a plane. 

The plane, rapidly descending, is groaning and shuddering around them. 

_ He’s crashing the plane _ , Bucky thinks. 

“Pull up, Steve!”

* * *

The plane bucks and fights him, the mechanics trying to compensate and keep the aircraft on its set course. Nerves flood his system. His chest goes tight, but it feels good in contrast to the emptiness he’s felt since Bucky’s fall. 

He takes one last deep breath and pushes the yoke down  _ hard.  _ Steel groans around him as the plane responds. His body comes alive as he loses altitude. The pressure in his chest increases. It’s alright though, he imagines the harness is Bucky’s arms wrapped around him. They’re doing this together. 

_ Steve,  _ he hears. The sound of Bucky’s voice makes him smile through the tears.

“I’m coming, Buck. I’m almost there.”

* * *

“No! Steve  _ please _ . Please...please don’t do this,” Bucky screams back too late. 

Because Steve can’t hear him. Bucky’s not strong enough to make Steve see him. 

It’s the worst failure he can think of. Of all the times that Steve has needed him. Of all the times that Steve has needed his shining, this is the most important and he can’t  _ do anything _ . 

* * *

When the wind screams in his ears it’s Bucky’s scream he hears. It’s fitting that after everything they’d done in life together that they’d die the same way, falling into a frozen abyss, lost to the world.

He’s low enough to see the white capped waves of the ocean. He fights against the yoke one last time, closes his eyes and pushes down. The nose of the plane crumples against the force of impacting the water. He’s ripped free from the chair’s restraints and tumbles in the rush of incoming sea water. He gasps uncontrollably while he tries to move away from the water. The plane finally comes to a rest. 

His uniform is soaked through and beginning to stiffen in the cold. He moves further into the cockpit of the plane, farthest away from the opening, desperate to get away from the water, to get his breath back. He leans against the far wall and pleads with his body to cooperate. To breathe. Instead all he can do is gasp and release large plumes of cold air. The water pools around his thighs, biting into his flesh. His clumsy fingers clutch at his shield so he can lean back fully. 

_ Steve, please… _

“Buck…” he whispers. The water is down to his ankles now. Low enough that he can sit now, he thinks. He slides down the wall and into the water. “I’m just gonna lay here for a bit and wait for you, Buck.”

A few minutes pass and the water is almost completely. Laying down would be so much more comfortable, he thinks. The frozen strands of his hair crunch when he lays his head down on the floor of the plane. With nothing left to do, he stares up at the ceiling. 

* * *

Bucky watches Steve sluggishly slide down and lay in the water. He sits down next to Steve and watches his breathing slow.

“Hang on, Stevie. Peggy and Howard will find you. Gabe and Jim...they’ll come.  _ Steve, please… _ ”

“Buck…” Steve whispers. “I’m just gonna lay here for a bit and wait for you, Buck.”

“I’m here, sweetheart. I’m here.” He reaches out and runs his fingers across Steve’s cold cheek. He concentrates on his shine to ground himself in the moment. To try to really be there.

Finally, Steve looks at him. “Buck.”

* * *

Finally, Bucky comes for him. “Buck.”

“Stevie,” Bucky says. He looks so sad. How can he be sad when they’re about to be together forever. 

“...so much,” Oh, he missed what Bucky was saying. It’s ok. It won’t be long now...he’ll just close his eyes now and wait.

* * *

“Stevie,” Bucky says. “I’m here now. I love you so much.”

Steve’s eyes slide shut and Bucky loses his focus as he feels the tenuous connection between them unravel and finally fall away.

When his consciousness returns to his body, across the world, he screams. 

* * *

The base is a monstrosity of steel and concrete, devoid of any comfort or...humanity. Arnim loves it. Not to live here, but for the work that he’s doing? Perfect.

“Welcome to Siberia, Doctor Zola.” 

Vasily hovers inside the doorway before stepping inside the room and embracing him. He returns the embrace. It’s been far too long since he’s been with family. Breaking through the American’s hold on him, finally finding someone sloppy enough to disregard their protocol and approach him without earplugs, and then pushing his way out of his confinement; it all took so long. 

Add in the loss of Johann, and it was just too much. His oldest friend, gone. 

“Is Aleksander here?” he asks Vasily after they’ve parted.

“Yes, Arnim. He is eager to speak to you about the future. On how to best honor Johann’s legacy.”

“Yes, yes, I’m certain he has all sorts of ideas. But first, please take me to the prisoner. I’m feeling a little hungry.” 


	13. Chapter 13

“He’s very sensitive to large world events,” Vasily tells him. “He had...episodes that coincided with the bombs dropping. We knew of the Captain’s death before the intel came in because he screamed nonstop.”

“Is that when he stopped eating?” he asks, flipping through James’ file.

“Yes, and he had just started to make gains again.”

“You placed a feeding tube?”

“It was necessary until Aleksander arrived.”

Arnim closes the file. “And what did Aleksander do?”

“I planted a thought,” Aleksander says from the doorway. “Just one simple little thought.”

“And?”

“And now he eats as instructed.” Aleksander crosses the room and stops before him.

“This is good,” he says with a smile. This is _very_ good, he thinks. “Take me to him.”

“There’s something else you should know, Arnim,” Vasily says. “It’s about the prisoner’s relationship with the Captain.”

* * *

“He killed a technician,” he tells Arnim.

Arnim shrugs, “Technicians are replaceable.”

“Yes, but none of the other technicians will go near him and we’re supposed to be preparing him for the arm.”

“What do you suggest, Vasily?” Arnim asks with an exhausted sigh.

He takes the opening and sits down across from Arnim. Sketches of the arm litter the desk. “Already making upgrades? We haven’t even attached the first prototype yet.”

“Innovation never rests, Vasily. Now, what is your suggestion?”

He leans forward. He’s actually excited about his idea. He’s not a scientist like Arnim is or how Johann was, but he thinks it’s a good idea. “Aleksander can plant thoughts. What if he planted words that would trigger compliance to whoever says them? You and Aleksander can’t always be around.”

Arnim taps a finger against his lips, contemplating. “I think that _could_ work. Where is Aleksander now?”

“Moscow, but he’ll be back next week.”

“And where did you put, James?”

“We locked him into one of the cells down by the laboratories.” 

“Good. Leave him there for now. When I have time I’ll go down and give him a push.”

* * *

The surgical theatre and labs are at the bottom of the Silo, or the Силос. The guards are working consistently on beating Russian into him, with decent success, but he’s learning more from the spirits trapped in this place. 

Bucky hates going to the bottom. It’s not just the torture. Although...not a fan of that either. It’s the ghosts. The more time he spends down there, the more strength they gain, the more corporeal they become. He’s only been down here for a few hours and he can hear them shuffling outside his cell. 

He looks inward at the tomes he’d created under his grandma’s guidance. There’s a couple from the war...and one, the oldest, from back in Brooklyn. 

_That’s a ghost,_ he’d told Steve.

He chokes back a sob. Oh Stevie. It hurts, so badly to think of him. He’d tried to go back, after joining him had been taken off the table. He’d tried to go back to find him, to sit with him, but no matter how the globe spun below him, Steve’s shine was missing.

He pushes the thought away. He’s not mad at Steve. Heartbroken, yes... _so_ heartbroken that he doesn’t even know how to handle it most of the time. But Steve doesn’t deserve his anger. Steve had thought that Bucky was dead and that Hydra had been defeated. If Steve had known that Hydra had only gone to ground to regroup, he’d have found a different way. 

So Bucky has to do it for him. Now that he’s not so lost in his grief. Because Stevie Rogers would never let him hear the end of it if he didn’t try to fight back. And he cannot fight back if he’s being haunted by ghosts.

“James,” Zola says from the cell door.

Bucky ignores him. He knows it won’t do any good. Arnim gets what he wants, but that doesn’t mean that Bucky has to give it to him willingly. 

“James, look at me,” he commands.

He looks to Zola with a glare.

“I don’t wish to fight with you, James,” Zola tells him, like he’s trying to be reasonable. After _everything_ he’s done to Bucky, he’s trying to sound reasonable, “but you did kill a technician today.”

Well, that’s true. They’d started to strap him down to a chair and he’d taken the opportunity to strike out at the technician. He’d swung with all his might, not expecting much. It shocked him to watch the technicians eye socket collapse around his fist.

“You’ll never make me feel guilty for killing Nazis.”

“Nazis!” Zola exclaims dramatically. “We’re no longer Nazis. Why, I work for the United States government. You are part of a secret branch of the MGB, much like the Red Room is.”

“You can weasel your way into whatever organization you want but you’ll always be Hydra and you’ll always be a Nazi.”

“Dear James, you don’t know _what_ I am yet. Hydra is not going to be at the top of your concerns soon enough. Now, you will comply with all orders given. And you will not harm any technician, doctors or guards. Tell me.”

He looks at Zola and laughs. What a silly argument they were having. “I won’t hurt anyone, Dr. Z. I don’t know what came over me before.”

“Good,” Zola smiles at him. “Time to get that arm looked at.”

* * *

A month later, they bring him back to the surgical theatre. They strap him down, but Zola doesn’t give him any orders. 

There’s no familiar push to stay still, or be quiet, or behave. 

Zola does order the technicians and doctors to leave the room instead and soon enough it’s only Zola, Vasily, and Aleksander remaining.

Vasily wheels a cart over with several thermoses. 

“You’re a gift to us,” Zola starts. “When we first infiltrated Hydra, our goal was to perfect a serum that would create a supersoldier. And then, with an elite squad of supersoldiers, we would rule over the world. We would bring a natural order to the world and we’d never have to hunt again. I didn’t take into account that the serum could potentially regenerate the shine...the steam of a man. Sadly, our time together in Austria had been cut short. But, then you came back to us and when Vasily had mentioned _how fresh_ your steam tasted...well, I knew we had something special.” 

“Steam?” he asks. He’s seen the small wisp of steam that escapes the dead.

“Yes, James. Your steam. Don’t worry your pretty head, we’ll do all the work.”

They take turns carving into him. They slide knives into the meat of his thighs, into his soft belly and between his ribs. The knives scrape across his hip bones. 

He screams. And finally, he sees it. A plume of steam escapes past his lips as his screams turn to weak moans. They descend upon him like men finding an oasis in the desert. At first they breathe in deeply. But then Zola continues with the torture, breathing in the steam Bucky lets out and then blowing it back into the canister. 

Zola doesn’t stop until Bucky is sure he’s about to die and they’ve filled every last canisters on the cart.

* * *

He, Aleksander and Arnim come up with the words. Ten words to control the subject. 

Arnim says the word. He gives it a little more force, so it’s the only thing the subject can think of.

“ _Longing...Желание.”_

He looks through the memories and thoughts going through the subject’s mind until he finds the right one.

“This one,” he says.

And then Aleksander plants the thought. He takes that memory and he buries the order to comply. 

Word by word they plant the orders, until they’re all there. The subject is sweating and dazed on the chair.

“What do you _say_?” Arnim commands.

The subject grits his teeth and snarls, “Ready to comply.”

“Good,” Aleksander says, “the brain work is done. Next, we pair it with physical pain and we should have a nice compliant subject.” 

* * *

“We need to have access to the Asset as needed,” Aleksander argues.

“We cannot risk the Asset just so you can use him for any little mission that comes up,” he argues back. He _refuses_ to let James die, or worse, fall into the wrong hands, just because Aleksander’s soldiers can’t handle a little hard work.

“Not any little mission,” Aleksander says, “but there are circumstances that we will need the Asset.”

“Then as those _circumstances_ arise, you can put in a request. But the priority is to keep him -”

“-It.”

“Pardon me?”

“You refer to the Asset as him. You must stop humanizing it. _It_ is a weapon when we need it to be and _it_ is food when we need it to be. Nothing more.”

James will always be more than just an Asset and much more than an _it_. However, Aleksander is family and they are working towards the greater good for both Invictus and Hydra. He can make concessions when needed. “I take your point, Aleksander.”

“And I yours, Arnim. Due to the unstable behavior of the Asset when it is conscious for longer periods of time, we will keep it unconscious unless we need to feed or if we need it on a mission.”

“About keeping the Asset unconscious...I actually have been working on something that will be much easier to maintain than constant sedation. What do you know about cryogenics?”

* * *

They keep it at the bottom of the Силос. 

There are _things_ down there that scream at it. Some of them slither and slide out of their dark corners to attack. It does not know how to make them leave and no one else appears to be aware of their existence.

It hates going to the bottom, but that is where its chamber is kept. 

And it thinks that while it sleeps, the monsters grow stronger. 

* * *

They wake it up and it is cold. 

The chamber it is kept in creaks open. Two soldiers pull it out and drag it down the hallway. Four soldiers keep their weapons pointed at it. 

They drag it to the room with the chair and lock it down. 

They read the words from the book. It’s head aches more with each word.

When the last word is read, an insistent feeling washes over him to _comply comply comply._

“Read to comply,” it says. A rifle hits it in the stomach. It loses its breath momentarily.

“Русский,” he yells. Oh yes, Russian.

“Готовы соответствовать,” he repeats.

It waits. The arm has been examined and he has been dressed for a mission. 

“Hello, soldier.”

It turns and sees a man, so familiar looking, blonde hair, blue eyed, strong jaw. 

“It’s been a while since we’ve seen each other. I’ve been quite busy.”

The man smiles at him and brings out a folder from his briefcase. “We have a mission for you.”

* * *

They wake it up and it is cold. 

The chamber it is kept in creaks open. Two soldiers pull it out and drag it down the hallway. Four soldiers keep their weapons pointed at it. 

They drag it to the room with the chair and lock it down. 

They do not read the words. 

It feels its heart rate increase, a blanket of fear falling over it. 

This is the only time fear is not only allowed, but required of it. 

It is time to feed Invictus; time to feed the family.

* * *

They wake it up and it is cold. 

“Готовы соответствовать,” it says, after the words are read. 

They take it to a crowded city. The Handler straps a tracking bracelet onto its flesh arm, tells it who its targets are, and tells it to hide itself.

It hides in the corner of a large room, leaning against political posters of the man it is about to kill. 

The man in the posters sits alone in his office, a soft light spilling through the blinds, typing. The keys of the typewriter fill the space. It thinks of another sound that used to fill in the empty spaces around it. Not typing, but the sound of pencil to paper. It frowns at the thought.

It does not have memories. Memories, it has been told, compromise mission safety and must be burned out. Burned out...with the chair.

It hates the chair. It hates the halo that cradles its head and face, so close to...tenderness, but instead burns the memories of long ago out of him, leaving only what his Handlers desire. And this memory, it is only pencil and paper. Maybe...maybe he can keep it.

The light clicks off and when the man walks through the doorway, it finishes its mission. 

* * *

“When is the last time you did a wipe?” Aleksander asks angrily.

“There was a wipe a couple of missions ago, before the thing in Greece,” he says defensively. “It’s not against protocol to skip wipes as long as the Asset is functioning properly.”

“The wipes are _not_ for compliance. You are not new, Vasily. The wipes are to rid it of any pesky long term memories that might crop up when it is supposed to be putting a bullet in some politician or activist or world leader.”

“I know that, Aleksander,” he says back, “I have been here since the beginning. The trigger words were _my_ idea.”

“Then can you explain what happened?”

“Nothing happened.”

“Nothing?” Aleksander throws the mission report down on the desk between them. “Then what is the comment about the chair?”

Vasily frowns and looks down at his mission report. “The Asset cut one of the legs of the chairs in the motel shorter. Are you worried about being charged? Honestly, it was more annoying than destructive.” 

“And it doesn’t alarm you that the Asset just suddenly sprouted a personality...a preference?”

He drops his head back and pinches the bridge of his nose. That _is_ suspicious. “Damn.”

“Happy to see we’re on the same page again. He gets wiped the next time he’s out of cryo.” 

* * *

They move it from the frozen chamber at the bottom, to a new chamber away from the surgical theatres and laboratories.

It doesn’t matter. The monsters are fed and grown. 

* * *

It gets a new Handler. His hair is brown and his smile is sharp.

When Handler Rumlow gives it a command, it's like getting dragged away by the raging water of a tsunami. Doctor Zola works with Handler Rumlow on holding back and softening his commands, especially when they leave it gasping and dazed.

“It cannot obey you,” Dr. Zola chastises, “if it is unconscious.”

Handler Rumlow nods but when Dr. Zola leaves the room, he turns his razor sharp grin and tidal wave commands back on it. 

* * *

“Let the good times roll,” Patricks says, setting the case of beer down on the counter. Brock finds Patricks nearly unbearable to be around. He’s loud when he should be quiet, never serious when he needs to be and always serious and prickly when the rest of the team is down for rest and relaxation. Not that Brock himself has been able to get in any goddamned R and fucking R for decades now. There’s always a mission to go on for SHIELD, a region to destabilize for Hydra, or some undertaking for Invictus. The most he can manage to get is a long weekend here and there.

But when they bring the Asset out of storage, Brock is on duty twenty-four-fucking-seven. 

“We’re less than twenty four hours out from mission. What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Brock sneers at Patricks. He could just give the little shit a push, tell him to dump the fucking booze, but he doesn’t need to. Plus, he likes the feeling of pushing his will on people without having to actually... _push_ his will on people. 

Patricks’ eyes drift a little to the right of Brock before snapping back. _Oh_. 

“Grab your beer and come sit,” Brock tells him, shoving the chair next him out with his boot. Patricks does as instructed even if with a little more trepidation than Brock thinks is necessary. They’ll just let anyone into SHIELD nowadays, he supposes. He points to the beer, “You going to drink that or just let it get warm.”

Patricks must have been holding his breath because a relieved laugh explodes from him. “Right. Do...you want one?” He pushes his chair back out.

“No.”

“Ok. That’s cool man.” Patrick doesn’t pull his chair back to the table. He looks down to his still unopened beer, rolls the can back and forth in his hands. 

“You didn’t offer anyone else a beer.” Patrick scans the room quickly.

“Sir?”

“You...didn’t offer _anyone else a beer_ ,” he says again, relishing Patricks’ uneasiness.

“It’s just,” Patricks begins, “it’s just that there’s no one else here, sir.”

Brock makes a big show of looking around the room before pushing his chair to the left and slinging his arm over the Asset’s broad shoulders. 

“Don’t you think that the Asset would like a beer? It will be doing the job tomorrow. Don’t you think it deserves one?” 

Patricks doesn’t know what to say. It’s a trick question, of fucking course it is. But Patricks is too green to know what to do. He’s had ‘The Asset’ briefings. Don’t talk to it. Don’t engage with it beyond what the mission requires. It is not to be treated as a member of the team, but rather a very expensive weapon. There’s nothing in the team briefing on the feeding and personal care of the Asset. It is simply beyond the scope of the point and shoot team members. 

But...Brock can see Patricks struggle. The need to follow orders warring with the desire to be accepted. He shakes the arm around the Asset’s shoulder. The Asset doesn’t acknowledge him. It has, after all, its own training and orders to follow. Training that has been beaten, burned and _pushed_ into the Asset for longer than Brock has been living. It does not want. It does not need. Outside of tactical situations, it does nothing without expressed orders or directions. Anything given to the Asset is a gift. The Asset will be compliant and grateful.

The Asset sits in the chair silent, it’s hair pulled back into a tail, instead the loose style it’ll sport for tomorrow's mission. As the Asset’s handler, it’s Brock’s job to see to the Asset’s needs, inside and outside of mission. Brock likes being able to see the Asset’s eyes, especially when it comes time to push orders. And, he reasons, it’s a lot easier to apply the black camo around its eyes.

Patricks stares at the Asset and licks his lips. “Umm, would you like a beer?”

The Asset remains still while Brock howls with laughter. “Ho-ly shit kid! Can’t believe you fell for it. Would you pour a beer into your rifle?”

“No, Sir.” Patricks pops the tab of his beer and takes a sip. “Sorry, Sir.”

Brock leans forward and looks the kid straight in the eye. “Don’t be sorry. Be smart. The Asset is a weapon. It looks like a person, but it has no agency. We point it in a direction and give it an order. Specifically, _I_ give it an order. It carries out the order. What’s the first thing you learn about weapon safety?”

Patricks frowns. 

“Always assume your weapon is loaded. The Asset is no different, except that the Asset _is_ always loaded.”

* * *

The Asset likes the bike. 

It doesn’t enjoy the cold wind in it’s face. That reminds it of when he gets pulled from the tube, and something else, something too far out of reach.

The mission...catches it off guard. 

_Sergeant Barnes_ , the man had said. It doesn’t know who that is. But it unsettles something deep within it. Buried deep in there, along with the shape of the memory of why it doesn’t like the cold air whipping at its face. It is not supposed to have memories. It is a tool, a weapon. It is commanded and then stored. Perhaps _Sergeant Barnes_ is part of another cluster of trigger words. 

It does not like the trigger words. It is not allowed preference, but if it were, it would choose the rough voice commanding it in its head to the blunt force of the words from the book. When the voice is in its head, it is clear and smooth and it wants nothing more than to comply. When the book words are spoken, they hurt.

_Sergeant Barnes_

They hurt as well, but not like the book words. 

It arrives at the extraction point, as commanded, and gives the Handler, the voice in its head, the case. They move back to the house and the Handler tells it to sit, before he takes the case into another room. The other soldiers move around the living room and kitchen joking and laughing with one another. Their trajectory never takes them within its immediate proximity, but there’s an awareness in their body posture that tells it that they are very alert to its presence. 

_Sergeant Barnes_

It is a good thing, given how off kilter it now feels, that it terminated the targets before they were able to recite the remaining triggers. It _should_ report to the Handler about _Sergeant Barnes_ . How even now, it is bouncing around inside of its skull almost like words he gives him. It looks towards the hallway where the Handler disappeared and it decides not to. It feels wrong, for making a decision on its own. Outside of mission parameters, it is not _allowed_ to decide anything. 

The soldiers around it laugh loudly, distracting it from its dilemma. 

One of them, loud and young, stabs the side of his drink and then pushes it to his lips quickly, but not quick enough. The drink sprays the kid across the face. The rest of his team laughs at him. One of them chants, _pound it pound it pound it_ over and over again. The Asset watches them and feels _Sergeant Barnes_ give his brain another kick. The kid, who was indeed, _pounding it_ , crushes the can against his forehead and yells in triumph. 

“Hail fucking Hydra!” he yells. The other men startle and start to close in on their teammate. 

It would appear though, the kid has pounded more than one beverage while it has been sitting at the table.

_Sergeant Barnes, Hail Hydra_...it frowns and jerks its head as the two words fight in its brain. It is not the second phrase of the new triggers. It feels more like conflicting orders.

“Fuck yeah, man. Killed them fuckers dead man. Killed the Starks, killed Captain fucking America.” 

_Sergeant Barnes, Captain fucking America, Hail Hydra, are you ready to follow 'Captain America' into the jaws of death, you will be the fist of Hydra._

_Killed Captain fucking America_

It’s a sloppy kill, it thinks as it watches a fine mist of red disperse in the air. The shot takes half of the kid’s skull off. It has the gun laying back on the table before the body hits the floor. The Handler rushes out of the hallway and stands stunned at the scene. 

“Lower your fucking weapons!” he yells at the remaining team members. He crosses in front of it and stares into its eyes. “Fuck.”

The Handler holsters the weapon it used to kill the _pound it pound it killed Captain fucking America_ kid. “Who’s fucking weapon? Who fucking left a weapon out with the Asset?”

Three sets of eyes look down at the body on the floor. One of the men looks up to the Handler, “It usually just sits there.”

“Fuck,” the Handler swipes a hand through his hair before turning back to it. He pulls it by the arm, down the hallway and back to the farthest room. They pass the rooms it had cleared yesterday. They pass the room it had stacked the dead family in. Once they’re in the room, the Handler turns on him. “You will not harm your teammates. Fuck, what a mess. You will forget this mission and you will forget the teammate you killed.”

The words worm their way into its skull. It feels them washing through its body and becoming its truth. 

It will not cause injury to its team members. It will forg…

_Sergeant Barnes_

The Handler is on the phone.

It will…

“Yeah, we’ve got a mess to clean up here. No, I don’t give a shit about Patricks. Call in Alex, he needs to shore up the fucking trigger words again.” 

_Sergeant_

There’s a mission. It…

_Sarge_

The Handler stands in front of it. It must have...lost time. 

“Ready to comply,” it says. 

* * *

The light streaming through the curtains is bright. It squeezes its eyelids shut tight and tries to orient itself. The bed is soft. It thinks it's softer than what it’s used to, but when it tries to think of _how_ it knows that, its memory is blank. The sheets, they’re cool despite the warmth of the air and it has...a pillow? Which strikes it as wrong. Does it usually have a pillow? It doesn’t think so…

The arm around its waist tightens and a warm body shifts up against its back. “I can hear you thinking,” the sleep rough voice says. Its body tenses in the embrace. Its eyes open wide. That’s wrong. You can’t _hear_ someone thinking. 

Wait. No.

It can do that. But, only with permission? Only when its been told he can. 

“Aren’t you sleepy, babe?” the voice behind it asks. And _yes,_ god is it sleepy. So tired all of a sudden. It feels itself start to sink and drift into slumber when the voice behind it chuckles. “Maybe not that sleepy.” 

The fog in its brain pulls back a little and now it is just comfortably floating. 

“There you go.” The arm around its waist pulls back firmly, the fingers trail lightly across its naked torso, the mouth kisses the back of its neck and the hips thrust forward and... _oh_. This it knows. “You’re never too sleepy for me, are you babe? Say it.”

“No,” it breathes out, “never too sleepy for you.” 

* * *

It fights the new Winter Soldiers as its handlers watch on.

They are stronger and faster than it, made with a new serum, and have the advantage of numbers. But it has weapons that they do not.

It uses its mind to read their minds and confuse them. It hides itself easily and uses its mind to push them into each other's blows. They become frustrated and angry. It makes them stupid and they begin attacking the guards. 

It doesn’t see them again after that.

* * *

“You look so much like your dad.” Fury shakes his head.

“I’ve heard,” he says. “It’s good, strong genes.”

“It’s fucking uncanny,” Fury states, “and more than a little unsettling, to be honest.”

“Well, fortunately, you won’t have to see too much of me, Director Fury,” he says, trying to smooth the look of distrust away. Maybe he _should_ have brought Brock with him. This would be so much easier with a pusher.

“Right,” Fury looks at him, “Special Liaison to Secretary Pierce...your pops.” 

“Right,” he says back, annoyed. _He_ had engineered meeting Nick Fury years ago. He’d wanted to see if the man was willing to break rules when needed. Fury, very much was willing.

Alex just hadn’t realized _how_ much work was going to have to go into maintaining this persona at the time. Especially when they don’t age. Arnim had alway warned against being too visible, too successful. Alex can see now that he’d been right. He’d been sloppy and walked out of his office bathroom one time without his mask on and right then and there, Alexander Pierce Junior had been born. An entire new persona that he had to maintain, on top of being Secretary Pierce. _Stupid_.

“Well, _Junior_ , unless you’ve got something else for me, I’ve got work to do,” Fury tells him, gesturing to the screens up on his desk. A dismissal. “I don’t know if you noticed in the last week, but we literally had a god from another planet here.”

“Right,” he says again. Maybe it’s time to start planning Nick’s retirement. “Well, thank you for your time, Director.” 

* * *

Steve is beyond angry. 

_He is supposed to be dead._

Reunited, he thinks acrimoniously. Bucky’s voice had just been whispering in his ear...what was that yesterday, the fucking day before? In the plane, he’d been dying in the water and Bucky had been _there_.

He’d been there.

And now Steve is stuck here, an unintended consequence of his drive and determination. 

“Captain Rogers,” Director Fury’s voice comes from the doorway. He can’t say that Fury is the _last_ person he wants to see, but since he really doesn’t want to see anyone…

“Are you busy, Captain?” 

Steve puts the book down. “Never for you, Director.”

“Great,” he says and sweeps into the room with a man trailing behind him. He’s shorter than Steve by nearly four inches, but the man...he looks a lot like Steve.

“Hello, Captain Rogers,” the man says and offers his hand. Steve accepts it while the man continues, “I’m Agent Alexander Pierce.”

“Junior,” Fury says.

The man smiles wider, “Junior. My father and Director Fury worked together years ago.”

“Agent Pierce is Special Liaison to Secretary Pierce and will be in charge of reporting on your progress to his father while Agent Rumlow works on getting you field ready.”

“Field ready,” he repeats to Fury.

“You were given a gift, Captain,” Agent Pierce says. “The world still needs good men like you. You wouldn’t turn your back on it, would you?”

“Son…” he begins before Fury jumps in.

“Let’s just get the good Captain settled into his new place before we give him a mission,” Fury says. “Agent Pierce, could you give us a moment please?”

Pierce gives a quick nod before making his exit. There’s _something_ about him that he can’t quite put his finger on, but Steve does not like him.

_Trust yourself,_ he can almost hear Bucky saying in his ear.

“He’s very intense at times,” Fury interrupts his thoughts. “His father was the same way actually.”

“You said settled in.” Steve doesn’t care about Pierce. He doesn’t like him and he’s not often wrong about his first impressions of people. Well, except for Bucky. 

Fury nods and sits at the edge of his bed. “We have a place in Brooklyn furnished for you.”

Brooklyn. The thought of going back home had once been the only thing keeping him going. But back then, it was he and Bucky going back home together. To go back to Brooklyn now and walk the same streets, stripped away of everything that used to make it home, it sounds like torture.

“ _Or_ , I’ve got a place available in DC. Not so many ghosts hanging around?” 

_Ghosts,_ Fury doesn’t even know the half of it. Or maybe he does. Maybe the shining isn’t a secret here in the future.

“Where’s all my stuff? Peggy had helped me put our belongings in storage.”

“I can look into that. There’s an exhibit that runs on and off again at the Smithsonian. Travels the country too. I would guess that some of your belongings are there. I can also ask Director Carter.”

“Peggy?” Steve had assumed everyone he’d known was dead. He’s got a stack of files sitting here somewhere, but he hasn’t been brave enough to look through them yet. 

“She lives in an assisted living facility outside of DC.”

The thought of seeing Peggy again, lifts something within him. Hope maybe? Hope that he’s not alone after all. It’s a small consolidation, but it appears to be all he’s got.

“DC, please. I’d prefer to go to DC,” he tells Fury. 

* * *

He ends back up in New York.

The team, this new team that he’s part of, is strange and it’s difficult to get his footing. With the Howlies, he knew where he stood. They didn’t hide or keep information from one another. They didn’t all have their own agendas. Sure, Peggy had access to intel that Steve would have never seen, but he trusted her to give them what they needed. He’s having a difficult time extending that trust to anyone at this point. 

After the battle, he wanders the streets of mid-Manhattan. He watches the clean up efforts, helps a little here and there. Without the suit and shield, no one pays too much attention to him and he walks and walks until he’s made his way down the island. He walks along Centre Street until he’s standing at the entrance of the Brooklyn Bridge. Despite, or more likely because of the violence of the days before, the bridge is overflowing with people vying for the best angles for their photos. 

He could make his way through the crowd, keep his head tucked down and be across into Brooklyn in an hour. But what’s waiting across the bridge for him? The stores and shops are gone, torn down or renovated into something modern. There’s no returning to the apartment he and Bucky shared, where he grew up with his mother. Bucky’s not waiting on the other side of _this_ bridge. He shakes his head, nothing’s changed in the months he’s been in DC.

Loki had been right...man out of time, indeed. 

Later, he watches as the Tesseract is readied for Thor. It’ll be a relief to have it off the planet, and isn’t that an outrageous phrase, Bucky would have gone wild. He feels like the last five years of his life have centered completely around that thing and he can’t wait for it to be gone.

Loki is bound, bruised, and gagged but never loses the look of defiance in his eyes. He glares at them, but takes the free end of the Tesseract case when offered. After the Asgardians have disappeared in a flash of brilliance, after he shakes hands with Howard’s son and they all go their separate ways, Steve mounts his motorcycle and heads back towards DC.

* * *

They wake it up and it is cold. 

“Готовы соответствовать,” it says, after the words are read. 

Handler Pierce sits in front of it, an old man. It feels...confusion. How long has it been locked away in its chamber?

“Oh,” Handler Pierce says with a chuckle, “I apologize.”

He presses a spot at the back of his ear and little bolts of light flicker across his face. When it stops, he lifts a mask delicately from his face.

“Better?” Handler Pierce asks, his face back to normal.

It is not allowed to express preferences, it knows this, but it does feel better. And the handler did ask. It nods.

“Good. It’s time for some word maintenance.”

It shudders. It _does not like_ word maintenance.

“I know,” Handler Pierce says sympathetically, “It’s necessary though.”

He reaches up and places a hand against its face. It leans into the touch, looking in Handler Pierce’s blue eyes and nods. It is necessary. Maybe...Handler Pierce will keep his hand there.

Maybe.


	14. Chapter 14

“I’ll put it on the list,” he tells Sam with a smile, pulling the small notepad from his pocket. A lot of times when he says he’s putting something on the list...he’s really not. It’s just a good way to end a conversation and send people away thinking they helped him out. But Sam...he’s got a good feeling about, so on the list it goes. 

Another point in Sam’s favor, he doesn’t say anything about Steve’s notepad. Unlike Brock and the rest of the STRIKE team. And Tony, who is convinced that Steve just cannot _quite_ grasp the intricacies of newer technology. In reality, Steve had the phone figured out in half a day. 

Sometimes people forget to look past the shield and soldier. Sure, they think he’s brilliant tactically speaking, but they don’t apply that to any other part of him. 

He adjusted to the serum. He adjusted to the shield. He adjusted well enough to fight an invading alien army. It’s as if everyone around him forgets that he has a supersoldier brain and eidetic memory that allows him to pick up and retain, just about anything given the opportunity. Hell, he doesn’t even _need_ the list. 

But, it annoys Tony so much when he pulls it out, instead of his phone, so he keeps it.

“It was nice meeting you Sam,” he says, watching as Natasha’s car pulls to the curb. “Maybe I’ll catch you out here again. I mean, I know I’ll _catch_ you, but maybe I’ll do a cool down walk with you or something.”

“Wow, that’s how it is, huh?” Sam laughs.

“That’s how it is,” he says, getting into the car. He leans back, relaxes, and watches Nat and Sam flirt over across him.

* * *

They wake it up and it is cold. 

“Готовы соответствовать,” it says, after the words are read.

“English!” someone hisses.

“Ready to comply,” it repeats. 

It looks for Handler Rumlow, but there are only technicians. An irregularity, but not without precedent. With no handler present, its orders are to listen to the technicians. 

They do not wipe it. Another irregularity. It recalls now, that it is in America. Its owners, his real owners moved it…

“The arm needs maintenance,” a technician says.

“Then do it,” another says.

“I’m not trained. Johnson is and he’s running late. DC traffic is hell.”

“Then I guess we get paid to wait.” The technician leans back and unfolds a magazine. Sloppy. First no wipe and now providing it with non mission related intel. The man lifts the magazine in front of his face. It reads the cover. _How Captain America Saved New York._

It turns its head away from the words and from the face staring out from the cover. _Captain America_ ... _Captain America._

_Sergeant Barnes, Captain fucking America, Hail Hydra_

It had...killed the kid. The kid had said Captain America was dead. It looks back to the magazine cover. Captain America is not dead.

It wants...but no, it is not allowed to want. It looks up. The technicians are looking at their own intel. The armed soldiers are talking, weapons at ease.

It closes its eyes and moves out of its body. It does not have permission to leave its body, but it does it anyway. _This is important._

It watches the globe spin below it, frantic and out of control, until it calms itself. 

It floats above the ocean. It feels...familiar, the dark waves. It looks at its arm, expecting to find writing... _if found please return to…_

Return to...who? A different handler? No, the arm was too small. It would not have had a handler then, would it?

Down below it, in the ocean is bright shining. Not a light...but a _shine._

It moves down onto the ship, the Lemurian Star. It stays to the side, hidden in the shadows, letting its long hair obscure its features, and watches Captain America fight. The Captain throws his shield and it finds that it knows what the Captain will do before he does it.

The Captain looks up and sees it. He frowns and squints his eyes. “Come out,” he commands, “I can see you there,” but it is not a command it has to follow. There’s no push to it. Behind the Captain a man takes aim, but before it can say anything the man is shot.

“Thanks,” the Captain says to...Handler Rumlow. The Captain works _with_ the Handler.

It cannot be seen, or it will be punished, and it does not want...it is not supposed to want...but it does not _want_ to be punished.

It pulls itself back off the boat...just in time to see the Captain point to where it had been standing.

* * *

“Was he wearing a chute?” 

“No, he was not,” Brock answers with a smile. Mentally, he catalogues the difference between Captain America and the Asset. Would the Asset have been able to make that jump without a chute? Most likely....but they don’t typically put it in those types of situations unless Alex and Arnim agree that it’s necessary. It might be their only supersoldier, but it is also their best source of steam. And frankly, some of the best steam he’s ever had. 

Rogers has taken care of most of the enemy’s initial security detail by the time he’s close to landing, all except for one behind him. Brock takes the target out before landing. Rogers thanks him before pointing over to the shadows, confused when he realizes there’s no one there.

“Happens to us all, Cap. That’s why we’re in a team right?” he asks. 

He finds a certain joy in interacting with Captain America. In watching him, wondering when he’s missing _his_ Bucky. Sometimes, _making_ him miss his Bucky.

“Real sniper shot there, wasn’t it, Cap?” he asks and watches the despair twist Rogers’ features momentarily. 

Oh, what kind of face would Rogers make if he knew just _how_ close Brock and his Bucky have been. Maybe, before they kill Rogers, he’ll make it a point of telling him.

Yeah, that’ll be fun. 

* * *

The technicians do not put it back into its freezing chamber. Instead, they walk it to a barren holding cell and lock it inside. It sits on the floor, in the corner of the room, and thinks of the Captain.

The Captain works with Handler Rumlow. Will the Captain become one of its handlers as well?

That doesn’t feel right, but it had seen it with its own eyes. It finds that it is drawn to the idea of seeing the Captain again. _Another irregularity_ , it thinks. But the idea circles in its brain and keeps coming back until it is the _only_ thought. 

It repeats the process from earlier in the day. Leaving its mind is an easy task, one that it performs regularly for its handlers. It looks for the same intense shine from before, the one that belongs to the Captain and finds it, not far away from its cell. 

The apartment is plain. It hears the Captain in the kitchen, eating his food methodically and without any pleasure. It and the Captain are similar in this way. It hears the Captain move from the kitchen to the sitting room. The Captain laughs suddenly and it moves to the hall, careful to keep to the shadows and out of the man’s sightlines.

It watches the Captain’s fingers move deftly across the device in his hand and startles when music begins playing from speakers around the apartment. It’s old music. The recording is grainy, but the lyrics…

_Heaven, I'm in heaven_

The Captain leans his head back, and begins to hum.

* * *

It’s late by the time he’s released from his debriefing and leaves the Triskelion. The few people that are still working part quickly for him as he aggressively walks to the garage. He’ll confront Fury tomorrow, that’s what he’ll do. He can’t have members of his team running off on different missions. He has to know who he can count on and who he can’t. He _always_ knew if Peggy was working a separate mission. He didn’t need to know details, but he needed to know in what capacity she was available. That doesn’t seem to have carried over from his era to this era of SHIELD.

He orders dinner from the garage and picks it up on his way. He walks up to the apartment and nearly runs over Kate in their hallway. Kate is one of the only neighbors that he knows in his apartment building. 

Too bad that she’s an absolute liar. It’s not that she’s bad at her job. She’s really not. But, if SHIELD was going to plant a babysitter, then they should have planted a couple of them. He really shouldn’t be running into the same neighbor _all_ the time.

“Sorry, Kate,” he says, passing by her as fast as he can, “I’ve gotta be more careful.”

“It’s alright,” she smiles.

He makes it into his apartment and leans back against the door just in time to hear Kate’s ‘have a nice night!’ from the opposite side and stands there in the dark, like the sad sad man he is. 

God, but he just _hates_ it here. Not DC, but the future. Not the _stuff_ or the steps towards social progress that have been made. He hates this feeling of loneliness. Everyone feels so inaccessible to him. Maybe he should go look up Sam. He, at least, seemed genuine. 

Eventually he moves to the kitchen and eats his dinner in silence. The food really is so much better now. And like everything, the invasive thought comes... _Bucky would like this_. He tries to push it away, but when he starts thinking about Bucky, there’s really no going back. He’s lonely and missing Buck so he decides to lean into it and sit down in the living room and listen to some music. He laughs. _Living._ Not much living happening in any of the spaces of his apartment. 

He sits and puts the track on. Fred Astaire begins to sing and it’s like being transported back in time. 

_Heaven, I'm in heaven_

They’d been kids when the movie had come out. But later, it would come on the radio and Bucky would grab his hand and drag him into their sitting room. He lets his eyes drift closed and remembers the feel of Bucky’s arms around him, the catch of his stubble when he’d press his cheek closer to Steve’s.

_It’s called Cheek to Cheek for a reason, pal…_

He hums the melody and tries to keep the tears from flowing. The fabric of the chair rips under his grip and he gasps, feeling the panic building in his chest. He throws himself forward and puts his head down, like the YouTube video showed him. He works on breathing and hums what he can of the song. 

At last, his panic eases and his chest loosens. He wipes at his eyes, rubs them so hard little spots of light burst across his eyelids. When he finally opens his eyes, they take a moment to adjust, but when one of the dark spots on his periphery doesn’t disappear, his senses kick into overdrive and he bursts from the chair. 

He doesn’t grab the shield, feeling reckless and _angry_. How did this person get into his home and intrude on such a personal moment? He can see the figure, just a shadow really, step into his spare bedroom. Steve’s only a step behind, maybe two, but when he throws himself through the doorway, the room is empty. He flips on the light, checks the closet and the window. It’s like there wasn’t anyone there.

“What the hell?”

* * *

It does not sleep well after the Captain chased it from his apartment. It found...it finds the memory of the man weeping, unsettling and irrationally, unacceptable. _Mission Failure_ , it thinks. It also is weary of its own reaction to the Captain. These feelings and thoughts have moved from an anomaly to something more. It is clear that it is now performing out of tolerance and it should be reported. Yet...it doesn’t self report. It is important, it feels, for two things to happen, or rather, not happen. One, the handlers must not find out. Self reporting will surely lead to the chair and a wipe. And two, the Captain must _not_ see it. 

When it finally sleeps, it is plagued with strange visions. People it does not recognize. Past targets, perhaps, but it doesn’t believe so. The Captain is there in all of them, and it now does not believe that the Captain has ever been a handler.

No one comes for it in the morning. There has been no further maintenance and there has been no chair. Irregularities and sloppiness abound. It does not try to find the Captain again. It does not want to agitate the man again. At last, they come for it. The team that takes it does not have any of its handlers. It is to be used as backup, in case the initial team fails. They place the mask and goggles on it. 

The team fails to eliminate the target and they set it loose. It was not given any orders of concealment beyond its standard mask and goggles so it does not hide itself away with its shine. It walks towards the shot up SUV, fires, and watches as the detonation flips the vehicle onto its roof and slides past him. 

The target escapes him. In the absence of handlers and contradicting orders, it continues its mission. It opts for concealment this time, to evade capture, which is always part of standard protocol. It follows the target’s trail, through the sewers and back up onto the streets until it comes to a familiar apartment building. It takes off its goggles and climbs the building across the street. 

It is watching for the target through the scope of its rifle when it hears the Captain arrive on his motorbike. It immediately shifts its sights to the Captain, a familiar movement, yet it is unsure as to why. And then it remembers the visions of the night before. Many of the visions were from this perspective.

The Captain disappears into the building and then reappears minutes later in his sitting room. The lights go on, then off again and finally the target shows himself. It fires into the target, making certain not to injure the Captain... _never_ injure the Captain. 

_People shouldn't hurt you, Steve. No one gets to hurt you._

The vision comes to it quickly and fiercely. There’s movement in the apartment and it knows it should move but it wants to see the Captain. It waits. It waits until the Captain looks up and sees it. It wants to be seen.

But the orders override the want. It will not not allow itself to be captured. It runs. Across the rooftops, it hears the Captain crash through walls below it, until finally they’re on the same rooftop. The Captain lets his shield fly. 

They lock eyes as it catches the shield. It has essentially disarmed the Captain. It could take the shield, but that feels wrong. The shield belongs with the Captain. It throws the shield, knocking the Captain back and drops off the building. As soon as it hits the ground it hides itself and looks up at the building. The Captain stands, looking out over the streets, but his eyes slide right over it.

* * *

Steve sees his first ghost in Camp Lehigh. At least, he thinks it’s a ghost, because there’s no way Arnim Zola can still be alive, let alone looking just like he did back in the 40’s.

“Put your earplugs in,” he tells Nat. Of the many things that Steve is grateful for, one of them is the advancement of noise cancelling communication devices. And Tony makes the best ones, even included Jarvis capabilities in them and actually _didn’t_ give him a hard time when he’d demanded that every team member has at least two sets with them on missions. 

They move towards Zola, shield and gun ready. The lab is pristine. Whatever Zola is doing down here, in this old SHIELD secret building, it’s well funded.

“Put your hands up, Dr. Zola,” he says.

Zola turns. Steve sees his mouth move, but no words and more importantly, no commands filter through. 

“Jarvis translate, please,” Nat says, stepping carefully around a bench but never letting her eyes leave Zola.

_Doctor Zola said to drop your weapons._

“Hmmm, I don’t think so, doctor.” Nat flicks her wrist in a shooing motion. “Mind stepping away from the computer?”

Zola glares at them, but steps away.

“How are you alive?” he asks. “You should have died in a prison cell.” 

Zola laughs and says something with a shake of his head.

“Jarvis?”

_I work for the same people you work for, Captain._

“You’re a liar. Not a surprise.”

“He’s not lying, Steve,” Nat says from the computer. She pulls the thumb drive out and looks at him, shaken. “We need to get out of here.” 

Zola looks at the two of them and smiles. _It’s too late_ , he mouths.

“Steve,” Nat looks up from her phone, “we’ve got incoming.”

* * *

It returns to the vault. It is disarmed of any weapons. The guards and technicians continue to treat it as harmless once there are no weapons on it. 

“Handler Pierce wants you to visit him, Asset,” one of the guards tells him while locking it into its holding cell.

It nods its head. That was not an order. It was not given an order to visit Handler Pierce, but, if it does not go, Handler Pierce may come to it. And then it may have to have word maintenance. 

It closes its eyes and looks for Handler Pierce. Not a shine, but a glowing ember. Like the Captain, it does not have to look far for its target. It waits for the housekeeper to leave the kitchen before dropping into the furthest chair.

Pierce drops into the chair across from him, takes off the mask and drops it to the side. “Two targets. I want them dead in the next ten hours.”

It frowns.

“Captain Rogers and the Widow. I want them dead. They nearly _took_ Zola from us. Do you understand?” 

It nods. They nearly took Zola from them. It suppresses a smile. It means the handlers can die.

* * *

They use the book words. Even if they didn’t, Handler Rumlow is close enough to push any orders through. 

It fights. It ignores the screams and terror of the pedestrians around it to complete its mission. Kill the Widow. Kill the Captain. There’s another man fighting with them. It is not part of the mission, but it will have to kill him too. 

It doesn’t want to. It doesn’t _want_ to. 

It shoots the Widow, but aims for her shoulder. It aims only at the Captain’s shield and when the Captain loses the shield to it, again, it throws the shield back where the Captain can get it. It makes it look like a good fight. It does have to work hard. Fighting both the Widow and the Captain is difficult work, especially when it is trying not to kill them. 

It and the Captain are evenly matched. They fight like they were made for each other. They twist, turn, hit and block in perfect harmony. Like a well rehearsed dance.

_I did teach you how to dance better than that, you’ve got a point there_

It falters and the Captain flips it over, tearing the mask from its face. It straightens and looks at the Captain, finally face to face, only to see the shield drop low and the fight leave him. 

“Bucky?” It’s only one word, but the Captain sounds wrecked while saying it. 

“Who the hell is Bucky?” it asks, but what it really wants to say is put your shield back up, they’re watching us.

* * *

They take it back to the vault and place it in the chair. The technicians tut when they open his arm to repair the damage from the Widow’s bite. 

Visions, or memories, that’s what they are, flash before it. 

It is being dragged through the snow. Vasily, dragging it through the snow. Vasily taking pieces of its arm. Zola, putting the new arm on it.

The Captain diving for it, too late. _Bucky_ , he had yelled. _Bucky,_ he had said this afternoon.

_Bucky_. It was Bucky. 

It lashes out at the technician. It is angry and confused. If it was Bucky before, then _why_ is it not Bucky now?

Maybe it is Bucky now too? 

A hand delivers a stinging blow to its face. To Bucky’s face. Handler Pierce, in his old face mask, looks at it in anger. 

It finally asks the one question that it has wanted to ask since it saw the magazine cover.

“The man on the bridge. Who is he?”

And then Handler Pierce _lies_ to it. Because it knew the Captain before the mission on the rooftop. It cannot tell the handler that, but _it_ knows. It has known something was different since it was pulled out of its chamber and it saw the Captain’s face. The Captain it was certain was dead.

“But I knew him.”

Handler Rumlow frowns behind Handler Pierce.

“Prep him. Wipe him. Start over,” Pierce says. 

Its body knows not to fight but its mind screams. It leans back into the chair. _Remember Bucky_ , it thinks. It opens its mouth for the bite guard. _Remember Bucky_ , it thinks again. The chair shifts back and the arm locks engage. _Remember Bucky_ . It doesn’t want the chair. It doesn’t want the wipe. The halo above its head moves. _Remember Bucky_ , _Remember Bucky_ , _Remember Bucky…_

_Remember._

* * *

The Captain stands in front of it on the catwalk. He talks to the Asset like he knows it. He calls it Bucky.

What kind of name is Bucky?

It ignores the attempt to distract. The mission is the only thing of importance. Its handlers are counting on it. The Captain is strong and fast, enhanced like the Asset is. It will have been a fair fight when it kills him.

They fight along the catwalk, trading blows. 

The Captain manages to gain the upper hand, dislocating its shoulder and taking control of the metal arm. It fights as hard as it can, but the Captain’s chokehold is too strong and it feels its strength wane. Fortunately, it knows it is difficult to kill by suffocation. It will have another opportunity once it regains consciousness. 

The Captain does not have a gun.

_Stupid and reckless_ , it thinks as it shoots him in the leg and then in the back. 

The Captain stumbles and struggles, but makes it back to his feet, completing his mission. 

The Asset can still complete its mission. It can still eliminate the Captain. It takes a step forward and then the world around it explodes with rail gun fire. A larger trestle groans and crashes, trapping it painfully. It can feel the helicarrier dropping in altitude. It knows they’re crashing. It does not want to fall and die, desperately, does not want that. 

It yells and struggles, and then the Captain is there, stalking toward it. Confoundingly, the Captain does not kill it as expected. Instead, he lifts the trestle off the Asset. It moves out from under the metal before it crashes back to the floor of the carrier and prepares itself to fight.

"You know me,” the Captain yells, a ridiculous sentiment. It doesn’t know anything. It doesn’t know itself. It is just a thing that is commanded and used and maintained and harvested. 

"No, I don't!" it snarls back with a punch, knocking the Captain back. 

" _Bucky_ , you've known me your entire life,” the Captain pleads, fending off another punch.

It _rages._ Oh, to be able to know your entire life. Its life begins when that frozen chamber births him for its next mission. The chair kills any of its memories and the words make certain of its compliance. How can this man think that his words could make a difference against all that. How can he think that his words can breathe life into a thing. The hubris. 

“Your name is James Buchanan Barnes..." 

_There’s a lot of James’. A lot. There were even three of us back in my kindergarten class_

"Shut up!" It throws another punch and pushes the Captain with its shine. That name means _nothing_. Even if it had a name, they would never let it keep it. Never. It would be burned out of its brain with the chair. Over and over again. 

"I'm not gonna fight you.” He drops the shield from his hand. “You're my friend." 

_We’re best friends, Steve_

"You're my mission. You're... my... mission!" it screams, punching the Captain’s face. 

"Then finish it,” the Captain says, “'Cause I'm with you 'til the end of the line."

_Anywhere. Everywhere. End of the line, Stevie_

Its arm hovers above the Captain, poised for another strike, but it finds that it can’t. Then the helicarrier is ripped apart and the Captain falls as it hangs from one of the steel beams, watching. 

_End of the line, Stevie_

_Stevie_

It lets go.

_Aww, Steve, I miss you too_

It hits the water, jarring its dislocated shoulder, but it pushes past the pain and swims deeper, looking for the Captain. Looking for Steve.

_"We’re gonna be fine, I love you Bucky Barnes.”_

It finds him, motionless, being carried off by the current. It uses the metal arm to grab hold and forces its throbbing flesh arm to move in sync with its pumping legs. Fortunately, it _also_ knows that it is difficult to drown. It assumes the Captain possesses the same resiliency. 

It finally breaks the surface and pulls Steve to the shoreline. It watches for Steve’s breath to come, feels some old fear rise up, that maybe Steve won’t breathe, and feels the relief when he does.

It can’t stay. It cannot risk capture, not when it doesn’t know who to trust and everything is so confusing. The mission failed. Hydra will be going into hiding, but it’s the handlers that it worries about. If they can find it, they can control it again.

And it is done being controlled. 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter everyone! Thank you so much for reading! I've really enjoyed writing this fic and have so many more ideas. The title of this fic comes from the poem below.

**_Invictus_** by English poet William Ernest Henley

Out of the night that covers me,

Black as the pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance

I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance

My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

Looms but the Horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate,

I am the captain of my soul.

Bucky runs. 

By the time Steve wakes up in the hospital, sore but healing, and he gets filled in from Sam and Natasha, two days have passed. More than enough time for Bucky to have gone anywhere.

It’s also more than enough time for Natasha to have set them up with a new base of operations. 

“It’s called a home, not a ‘base of operations’,” Sam tells them. “That’s not healthy. You two need to improve your work-life balance.”

“What’s work-life balance?” Nat asks. “I think they missed that when they trained me in the Red Room.”

“Don’t look at me. I grew up in the Depression,” he adds with a smile.

“Sure,” Sam says, “I don’t know how either of you would ever learn something new. You’re right.”

“Fine, a compromise. The third bedroom becomes a ‘room of operations’,” Nat says, looking up at Sam with a smirk.

He frowns at Nat. “You want Sam and I to share a room?”

“No,” Sam and Nat say together. 

That doesn’t make sense, unless, “Oh! Alright then.”

Nat rolls her eyes. “Steve, grab the boxes and let's get this set up. Tony wants to make sure Jarvis is set up today.”

He and Nat move down towards the third room, the ‘room of operations’ when they hear Sam yell from down the hall, “who the hell is Jarvis?” 

* * *

Steve doesn’t throw his shield at the corner of the room. It’s a close thing, he does have the shield in his hand, but something about the shadow looks familiar.

“Buck?” he whispers.

The shadow shifts nervously.

“It’s alright. You can just stay there. You don’t have to come out.”

The shadow stills. Steve lays back down but turns his body so he’s facing the dark corner. He doesn’t drift off to sleep until Bucky leaves but when he does, it’s finally a night free from garish nightmares of what could be happening to Bucky.

* * *

Steve shuffles through the newest intel on Bucky...without any luck. It’s an exceedingly frustrating process and it’s only, he looks down at his phone, 9:00 in the morning. 

“Good morning Steve.” Sam says going straight for the coffee machine. They didn’t run this morning like they usually do. Steve wanted to get started on the intel. Steve grunts a hello in return.

“What was that now? I don’t speak crabby supersoldier.”

“Sorry, Samuel. Good morning. How are you?”

“I _do_ speak sassy supersoldier,” Sam shoots back, “I’m fine, thanks for asking, Steven. I take it the intel isn’t what you were hoping for?”

He drops the pages to the table. “He’s making this really difficult.”

Months of looking and he’s gotten _nowhere_. Every trail is cold by the time they find it. Bucky doesn’t stay anywhere long enough to establish a pattern. 

“Remember what I told you before?”

“He’s not doing it _to_ me.”

“Right,” Sam sets a mug of coffee down in front of him and takes the seat next to him. “The guy pulled you out of that river. With a busted shoulder, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And we’ve been through the info from Nat’s info dump, so we know about the chair and the trigger words.”

“The torture.”

“And the torture. He’s being cautious. And he does that creepy watching you sleep at night thing.”

“Some would call it romantic.”

“Some would call it stalking.”

“Touche,” he says with a laugh, “But Buck and I did always spend a lot of time in each other’s pockets.”

“It _is_ a good sign that he’s reaching out.” Sam tells him earnestly. Steve believes him. It is a good sign. He looks forward to seeing that shadow up against the wall. But he can hardly be blamed for wanting more.

“He’s scared,” he says. He _hates_ that Bucky is scared and Steve isn’t there with him. “I’ve always been there to hold him through his fears. To let him know that he’s not alone.”

Sam gives him a sympathetic look. “He may not remember that yet.”

“He will though. I’m sure of it.”

* * *

“Hey Buck,” he says to the shadow in the corner. 

The shadow shifts.

“You want to hear about my day?” he asks. A moment passes and Bucky nods. 

“I went for a run with Sam in the morning. It helps to be able burn off some of the excess energy. I’m not sure if you have to do anything like that. Later, Nat and I looked through some intel. There’s a lot to sort through. It’s pretty boring.”

Bucky nods again.

He laughs. “Goodnight Bucky. I love you.”

* * *

“Steve!” Natasha yells as she sweeps into the intel room. “We’ve got a hit on Barnes.”

“Where?” He grabs his shield. “Did you talk to Tony about a Quinjet? I want to be wheels up as soon as possible.”

“No, Steve, he’s here.”

“Here?”

“Yeah, he’s in DC. Sam’s going to meet us there.”

* * *

It knows what it is doing. No. _He_ knows what _he_ is doing.

It’s a difficult transition, going from a thing to a person. But one of the luxuries of the serum is his brain’s ability to heal. It doesn’t always help. Just because he can say or think the words, doesn’t mean that he always feels them or believes them. But it’s only been a month. _He_ is a work in progress. The brain is healing, but the memories are still a mess. 

He walks through the Captain America Exhibit carefully taking in all the information. There are pictures of the Captain, of Steve, from before the serum, and why wouldn’t there be? The Captain is a well documented and funded science experiment. Not like himself, who, while well documented, was a basement lab experiment, made with whatever Arnim could get hold of, except for the cube. That was special. 

He proceeds.

Picture after picture. The Captain with the old scientist. The Captain with the younger scientist. _He’s a loudmouth._ And how does he know that? It’s true though. He knows this truth deep down. He takes out his notepad and writes it down. He keeps track of all of the memories he feels certain of. 

Then a snapshot of the Captain with Carter. Carter’s agency had owned him last, but he’d never reported directly to her that he can remember. Perhaps he was too low down for her to concern herself with. She only had to give the orders. He already has a page dedicated to Agent Carter. It’s a confusing mess. 

He moves on. The crowd thins. Patrons silently being escorted out of the building. He’s running out of time.

The further he walks along the wall, the farther back in time he travels until he’s confronted with a wall full of art. The Captain was an artist. Another truth. Most of his notebooks are dedicated to Steve. He had already written down that Steve was an artist, but it’s always good to write down another confirmation. 

On the wall are drawings of landscapes and architecture. There’s a building that he is sure he sat in, laying in wait, before he assassinated a husband and wife in the 1970’s.

He takes a step to the left. 

He leaves the gentle landscapes and dramatic architectural feats behind. This art is people. A man in a bowler cap. He has a mustache that anyone would remember, not conducive to spywork. 

Next, a man who lived in Indiana and then moved to California. 

_There were even three of us back in my kindergarten class, but by then I was already Bucky._

Jimmy. It hurts, but he knows it’s true, so Jimmy goes into the book. He takes another step to the left.

There’s a woman. She’s floating in a filthy alley with her arm outstretched. She’s directing a boy, a stupid curly headed boy and his new best friend, a boy sure of heart, to a treasure covered by refuse. 

_Opal._

He’s got a separate notebook for the dead. For his spirits and monsters and ghosts. He pulls the notebook from his backpack and opens to a clean sheet and writes Opal. 

He knows he’s run out of time, but he decides to make his way to his own memorial and sits. The bench is empty, as is the rest of the museum now. He actually got longer than he’d thought. He doesn’t write down any of the facts from the inscription. They have him listed as dead. Who knows what else they’ve got wrong about him.

“Buck,” Steve says from behind him.

“How did you know it was me? I’m wearing a ballcap and everything,” he says. 

“Well, I guess he recovered his sense of humor,” another voice adds. The voice is familiar though. One that he’s heard before. Oh. 

“Sorry about your wings, and kicking you off the helicarrier, and, did I rip out your steering wheel?”

“You most certainly did.”

“ _Sam,_ ” Steve whispers. 

“Fine. I’ll be right over there. If you need me,” Sam announces loudly. 

“Buck-”

“I’m sorry I shot you. Three times. And stabbed you. Broke your face…”

“Bucky.” Steve kneels down in front of him and gently and slowly lifts a hand.

Sam clears his throat noisily from where he’s standing.

Steve’s hand drops. “Can I take your hat off?”

Seems like a silly question, he thinks at first. But then he gets it, and appreciates it. They’ve been through the intel. They know how much control he’s had over his own body for the last seventy years. He nods.

Steve’s hands come back up again and slide the cap off his head. “Do you know who I am?”

“Pal, we are literally sitting in the Smithsonian’s Captain America Exhibit,” he says with a roll of his eyes. Across the room, he hears Sam laughing.

Steve smiles and it lights up his face. “Fair enough. But do _you_ remember me?”

He remembers being pulled from his chamber that last time. Seeing the picture of Steve on the magazine cover and feeling some pull to go look for him. He remembers how he found him, by looking for his shine. He remembers going to his apartment and the feeling of failure when he watched Steve cry. There’s more now. The months they’ve been apart, he’s regained a lot of memories. He may not have everything, but he’s got a start. 

“Yes,” he says, “I remember you.”

* * *

They take Bucky back to their house. Sam drives because according to him, Steve’s likely to drive them all off the road since he can’t keep his eyes off Bucky. 

Sam’s not wrong. He can’t stop looking at Bucky, here in the flesh. He’s lost some of the bulkiness he had months ago and he’s cut his hair. Not short like it was in the war, but it’s not as long as it was before either.

“I like your hair,” he blurts out.

“Jesus, help us,” Sam murmurs from the front.

Bucky looks down with a smile, a slight blush on his cheeks. “Thanks.”

They make it home without making Sam combust in the front seat and soon enough it’s just the two of them.

“So, uh, this is my room over here. I guess you know that, from the visiting.” Steve does not understand how this is so difficult. They lived together for most of their lives, or most of Steve’s life, he supposes.

“I can sleep on the couch out here. Or on the floor. Or-”

“We can share,” Bucky says. “I remember us. I’m not ready to pick _all_ that back up. But, I think I’ll be alright sharing. But, just so you know, I rarely slept in beds, so I’m still trying to get used to it. I might end up on the floor.”

“Ok,” he says. “I had a hard time with that too. The bed that is. Sam actually helped find a mattress that I don’t hate.”

They crawl into bed, like it’s their first time laying next to one another. It would be comical, if not for the tragic circumstances behind it. He tries not to move too much, tries not to stray onto the other side of the bed.

“I remember us,” Bucky says in the dark. “I remember a lot now. And I wanted to say that I love you too.”

“I love you so much, Buck. I _missed_ you every day we were apart. 

“Can I,” Bucky starts, moving closer until he’s nestled right next to Steve’s arm. Bucky wraps his finger, his metal fingers around his bicep and rests his forehead there against his shoulder, “is this ok? Do you mind the arm?”

“This is perfect, Bucky. Your arm doesn’t bother me at all.”

“Goodnight, Stevie. I love you.”

“Goodnight, Buck. I love you too,” he says and then he lays in the dark and watches the man he loves sleep.

* * *

“You’re going to have to give us some background here,” Sam says from where he’s sitting besides the Widow.

“Has Steve told you anything?” Bucky asks.

“A little,” Nat says. “He told me about Zola. That we needed to wear ear protection. He said that he could make us do anything he wanted just by saying it.”

Bucky nods, “That’s true. I’m not sure about non-enhanced people, but for people like me and Steve, it’ll wear off. Handler Rumlow was the same.”

“What could Pierce do?” Sam asks.

“Handler Pierce, he can implant thoughts. It’s a little more time intensive, precision works. Zola and Rumlow, their orders were strong, but they felt like they were floating on the surface of my brain. Pierce was like, having a surgeon cut into your brain and plant an idea that you can’t tell if it’s yours or not.”

“Fury put a bullet into Pierce though. I saw him dying.”

“What did it look like?” Bucky asks skeptically.

“It looked like he got shot in the chest and was bleeding out.”

“Then he’s not dead.”

“You think he walked off two bullets to the chest.”

“I think he would have had a plan. You don’t live nearly one hundred and not pick up a couple tricks along the way.”

“Pierce was not one hundred…” 

“Anyone else?” Steve interrupts. He’s trying to be calm, but it’s difficult to listen to Bucky talk about these monsters. They took so much from them. From Bucky.

“No. Vasily died years ago. If they come, it’ll be Pierce, Zola and Rumlow.”

“Pierce is dead…” Nat says.

“So you want to draw them out and kill them?” Sam interrupts with a frown. Steve knows that Sam might have a problem with hunting and killing. Steve might have in the past too. But this is Hydra. 

“They’re not human,” Bucky says.

“What?” The three of them say. 

“Hydra is one thing, made up of humans. Invictus is a family within it. They were humans. And they were like me, had the shining. Whatever their abilities were, must have been enticing enough for Invictus to turn them. But they don’t age like us, or like normal humans. Zola is very old. At least three thousand. Pierce is close to one hundred. Rumlow is in his fifties, maybe sixties.”

“Oh, _excuse me_? These guys are immortal?” Sam asks.

“No. Eat well, live long. But they’re not immortal. They have to feed to stay alive.”

“Feed off of what?” Sam asks.

“Steam. When they kill someone with the shining, it releases steam. The younger the victim the better. The more scared and the more pain they’re in, the more pure the steam is. The serum made me an anomaly.”

“These guys kill kids?” Sam asks angrily.

“These guys kidnap, torture and murder kids. Lots of kids.”

“Alright, I think I’m on board with the hunting and killing now,” Sam says, leaning back into the couch.

“What about Pierce’s kid?” Steve asks. He’d only seen him a couple times. “Would we need to worry about him?”

Bucky looks at them confused. “Pierce never had any kids. He may have faked a family, but he would have never been able to have kids after he turned.”

“I met his son,” he says. He definitely met his son.

“Oh, Pierce wasn’t an old man. _You_ met Pierce without his aging mask,” Bucky says, looking relieved.

“Like what Nat was wearing right?” Sam says to them. 

“Why though?” Nat asks.

“He was planning on living a long time. Maybe he was preparing for his next persona within SHIELD and Hydra?” Bucky says.

“Shit. That’s devious,” Sam says. “We need to take these guys out.” 

“I don’t think _we_ should kill them, although they _can_ be killed. A gun would take care of them just fine. But if just one of our headsets goes out, that’s it. They’ll turn you to kill the rest of us. I don’t think it’s worth the risk. And, I don’t know how many will show up. The family, Invictus, was split up all over the world to plant the seeds of Hydra and grow within it. I only experienced the head. And,” Bucky pauses, “I don’t know if I can shoot any of them. I’ve always been under trigger words and commands.”

“So what do you suggest?” Steve asks. He’s not letting these monsters get away with what they did to Bucky. They could still come back and get him again.

“I have an idea.” 

* * *

At his insistence, they take a break for lunch. 

Sam orders in pizza because he says he’s _not_ cooking enough to feed two enhanced humans and one spy. He also said he’s not trusting two men who grew up in the 30’s, one who admitted that they boiled everything, to cook for them. Steve can’t fault him for that.

“What’s he doing?” Sam asks him nodding over at Bucky, who’s sitting on the couch with his eyes closed and breathing slow and deep.

“He’s checking for Invictus,” he says.

“He can track them?” 

“He can see people’s shine. But the Invictus looks different, so he can pick them out. He wants to make sure they aren’t close by.”

“Can they track him like that?”

“No,” Bucky says, opening his eyes. “Unless they turned another tracker. Johann was the only one that I knew could do that.”

“The Red Skull?” Steve asks. “Good thing we don’t have to worry about him.”

“Yeah, hopefully wherever he ended up, he stays there,” Bucky says, “We’re in the clear. No family nearby. Is the pizza here yet?” 

* * *

“Let’s hear the plan, Buck,” Steve says. 

He and Bucky have a pile of pizza boxes in front of them. Steve is starving, but Bucky looks dubious. 

“And eat,” he adds, prodding Bucky into taking a slice.

“I was kept in cryostasis in between missions.”

“We read about that,” he says, remembering the pain of his own defrosting. He can't imagine having to do it repeatedly. 

“The serum was healing my brain too quickly. I was becoming unstable. They’d already placed the trigger words and Zola was there to push me when needed. They tried drugging me too, but nothing seemed to work long term. But, and they didn’t know this, the serum wasn’t the only reason I’d become unstable. That place, at the bottom of the Силос, the Silo, it’s so saturated with murder. The ghosts of those Hydra had murdered, would attack me, feeding off of me to try to gain more power so they could get their revenge.”

“Ghosts,” Sam says.

“I think I know what you want to do,” Steve says, putting his slice down. He’s quickly losing his appetite, “and I don’t think I like it. They could hurt you. Not just Invictus, but the ghosts, right?”

“I think if I give them what they want, they’ll be more interested in Invictus than me. Plus, ghosts can’t be influenced by their abilities. We can let them take care of the killing part. And, I can take care of them if they get too close to me. Grandma taught me, remember?”

“Yeah, but…”

“I had to do it in the war too, Stevie.”

“Isn’t this a little different?” Nat asks. “You’re counting on the ghosts there to kill them and then, what if Invictus becomes ghosts?”

“They won’t. They’ll cycle.”

“What’s that mean?” Sam asks.

“It’s the reason I know Pierce isn’t dead. I watched Handler Vasily die. Their bodies start fading and flickering. Their skin disappears and then their muscles and then their bones and internal organs. The only thing that stays is their eyes, just floating there until the last cycle.”

“Oh, yeah, I did not see that happen,” Nat says.

“How do you know the ghosts will want them after all this time?” Sam asks.

“The Silo has been decommissioned for years. The ghosts were never strong enough to attack anyone but me and then I left. They’ve been starving for years.”

“Are you sure it’ll work?” Steve asks.

Bucky turns and looks at them over the cooling pile of pizzas, “I’ve done it before.”

* * *

BROOKLYN, 1941

“No. That’s _not_ a spirit,” he tells Steve. “That’s a ghost.”

Bucky doesn’t say another word until they reach their apartment and they’re safely inside. His fear turns to guilt when he watches Steve shake his legs out.

“Ah, I’m sorry, Stevie. Are you ok?” 

“I’m alright,” he says, rubbing his legs. “Better than the alternative, I’m guessing?”

“It wouldn’t have hurt you. I’m sorry, I should have thought about how fast I made us walk.”

Steve frowns over at him, tilts his head to one side and looks up at him through his eyelashes. Not the sexy looking up through his eyelashes, but the _you are too stupid for words_ look. “But it could have hurt you?”

“I mean, grandma taught me how to get rid of them. In theory, I could do it. Only, I haven’t had to do it.” And he’s scared, he doesn’t add. Steve will figure it out without him having to say.

“Then a couple leg cramps was worth it. You don’t have to be sorry for not knowing exactly what to do right at the moment, Bucky.” _See,_ he thinks, Steve always knows what to say.

“Come over to the sofa and I’ll give your legs a rubdown.”

Steve drapes his legs over him, groaning as he starts massaging his calves. “Are you going to go back?”

“I think I’m going to have to. I can’t just leave it. _Eventually_ , it could gain enough strength to cause problems.”

* * *

He sneaks out of the apartment in the middle of the night. The guilt builds the longer he stands and stares at Steve, but he needs to do this on his own. It’s his first ghost and he can’t be preoccupied with Steve being nearby, possibly in harm's way. 

He can feel her from where he stands at the mouth of the alley even though she’s hiding away in the farthest corner. _Hiding_ may not be the best word. She’s laying in wait, seething. 

He remembers showing his grandma the tome he made in his mind. She turned it over, inspecting all of the edges and the buckle that will keep the ghost locked away and gave it her approval. 

He walks down the alley.

* * *

Bucky learns something his grandma didn’t know. Or maybe she didn’t get the chance to tell him.

Sometimes ghosts aren’t people who did something wrong. This one in the alley, she’s clinging onto this side of the Beyond, not because she fears what’s waiting for her on the other side, but because she’s fixated on getting revenge on her killer. 

_He killed me, he killed me, he killed me_ , she says over and over. 

What remains the same, is that she needs to feed to be able become corporeal enough to hurt anyone. Which means, she needs him. He makes a deal with her, to give her what she wants in exchange for her to let go and leave to the Beyond. He doesn’t know if it’ll work, but it doesn’t seem right to trap her, not right away at least. Not if he doesn’t have to. 

Talking to her isn’t like talking to any of the regular spirits. She’s angry and fixated and not really willing to carry on a conversation.

_I want him dead_ , she tells him, _I want him dead_

“I want to help you,” he whispers, “but I don’t know who he is. Who is he?”

_He killed me!_ she screams, her image flickering in and out.

He tries something different. He feels his shine and lets it grow, enough that she begins to take shape, like the ghost outside his grandma’s house all those years ago. Her face is beaten black and blue, there’s blood caked into her hair, and there are livid bruises around her neck. 

“Here,” he sticks his arm out, hoping he can read who did this through the contact like he did with Alvin, “show me who he is.”

She grabs his arm hard, hard enough that he thinks she might just break it, but it does the trick. He sees the memory of her leaving the bar, arm in arm with a tall man. They make their way through the streets until they find a quiet alleyway to make out in. Bucky watches the woman die. He focuses back on the man and uses his shine to search the city before he rips his arm away from her.

_I want him dead,_ she says again.

“I’ll bring him to you.” 

Bucky floats down the familiar streets. He takes the turns he knows by heart, ones he walks every day. He hides himself away when he enters the club. It’s nearing closing time, the official one anyway, so there’s no one around when he appears in a booth across from the man who murdered the woman in the alley.

“Hi, Frank.”

* * *

“You killed Frank Scalzi!” Steve says in disbelief.

“ _I_ didn’t kill him, Steve,” Bucky says.

“What happened?” Nat asks, entranced, “after.”

“I lured him back towards the alley. He’d always leered at me at the club, so I knew he’d come with me if I pretended to be interested. And then she came for him.”

“They didn’t find his body for close to a _month_ ,” Steve says, wrinkling his nose. “It was August. He must have stunk up that alley.”

“And the woman?” Nat asks. 

“She left. I don’t have her locked away.”

Nat beams, “I love a story with a happy ending.”

“Do you feel bad?” Sam asks. “You did lead the guy to his death.”

He contemplates for a moment. He thinks about Theo, Celeste, and Gabby. He thinks about Opal. How he came to realize that Frank had put them all in those alleys. How he got Frank to admit to it. “No.”

* * *

Nat is able to get a Quinjet and they’re in the air the next day.

“You alright Stevie?” Bucky asks Steve, who looks pale in his seat..

“I have a bad track record with aircrafts staying in the air,” he says.

“Everything’s going to be alright.” He grabs Steve’s hand and squeezes. He loves this man so much. How is it possible that months ago he’d been wiped from his mind.

When they land, he sits frozen in his chair while Nat tells Stark to strategically leak the Winter Soldier’s whereabouts. Then there’s nothing left to do but leave the jet and he finds that he is terrified to go outside. 

“You alright, Bucky?” Steve asks him. 

“I have a bad track record with not being tortured at Hydra facilities,” he says with a smile.

“Some guy I know told me everything’s going to be alright,” Steve tells him. “I trust him.”

He takes a deep breath and blows it out, “Ok, let’s get this done.”

He leads them into the Silo. He listens to Steve, Sam and Nat discuss where they’ll be when Invictus arrives. Sam hands out the noise cancelling headsets, two each. He’s tense and wants to get this over with. He wants to go home. 

Steve steps in front of him when he turns to head to the bottom floor. “Stay in contact, yeah?”

“I will. Promise,” he tells Steve. 

Once he arrives on the bottom floor, he walks through the deserted room and sits across from the chair. The device that stole so much from him. 

He closes his eyes and pushes his consciousness outside of his body, up past Steve, Sam and Nat, up the silo stairs and out the top. There he stays and waits, feeling the ghosts start to slither and creep out of their dark corners. He feels them strengthen, feeding off of his shine and listens to Steve and Sam chatter on the coms. Otherwise everything is silent around him. The calm before a massive storm. 

His consciousness drifts until he begins to feel the ghosts brush up against him. He smiles. They’re getting nice and strong now. Nice and ready to end this nightmare for all of them. One of the ghosts hits the chair he’s in and he grunts.

“Are you alright, Bucky?” Steve asks.

“Fine. They’re starting to get strong enough to be physical. That’s good. That’s what we need.”

“Any sign of Invictus?” Nat asks.

He goes back to his spot in the sky and looks. 

“Not yet. Remember, when they get here, let them get all the way down to the bottom. We want the ghosts to take out as many of them as possible before Invictus knows you’re here.”

“Steve has a shine, right?” Nat asks. “If they have a tracker, will they be able to see it?”

“I’ll take care of that. I’m going to push out a lot of shine when they get here. Hopefully, that’ll mask any of the shine from up there.” 

“And if it doesn’t?” Sam asks.

“Then you start shooting,” he tells them. “I’m going back up.”

Outside the Silo, he looks across the darkened landscape. He knew he would end up back here again. Once he’d started to regain his memories and he realized what he was up against, he knew he would have to come back here. He would have done it on his own, but he lacked the resources and he needed a team. Or maybe he wanted a team. People to watch his back. 

He drifts back down to the bottom floor. He’s only ever talked with one ghost like this before, but he hopes it works a little like pushing spirits along. Get one to buy in and the rest will follow. It’s going to really cut their time short if he has to negotiate with each one. Well, no time like the present. He opens his eyes and is face to face with a Winter Soldier. 

_Oh, this one is going into a tome,_ he thinks. He looks around but doesn’t see any of the other Winter Soldiers. Good, they were all Nazi scum anyhow. He does notice that the other ghosts have moved away. 

“They know you’re evil,” he whispers. 

“Bucky?” Steve’s voice comes through the com. 

“Everything is fine, Steve. Just have to deal with an old co-worker,” he tells them. 

In his mind he prepares the tome. 

“Come on. Let me have it,” he says, closing his eyes. 

_Remember, you have more power than they do. Once you’ve got them, you spring your trap._

The soldier attacks and Bucky snaps the covers shut around it and buckles the lock. When he opens his eyes, the Winter Soldier is gone and the rest of the ghosts have moved back towards him, curious.

“I’m sure you’ll appreciate him gone,” he tells them. One of the ghosts moves closer. Oh good, a spokesman. He’s more whole than many of them, which is a nice change from some of the ghosts around the room. He smiles up at the dead man, “I’ve got a proposition for you.” 

Turns out, _it does_ work much like herding spirits to the Beyond. 

“Steve?” he says into his com. 

“Yeah, Buck?”

“We’re in business.”

* * *

Invictus arrives. He watches as they move closer and closer to the Silo until they’re right on top of it. He can’t get an exact number, but it’s more than three. 

“There’s more than the three of them,” he says into his coms. “Be careful. And make sure you scan with your heat sensors for any hiders.”

“Yes, mom,” Sam says over the coms, making him smile. Yeah, he missed having a team. 

“Jarvis,” Nat says, “begin translating for all targets.”

“Affirmative,” comes Jarvis’ reply. 

He stands off to the side, unhidden and pushes his shine out, trying to drown out the shine coming from upstairs as Pierce, Zola and Rumlow come down first. The arrogance astounds him, now that he can look upon them in his right mind. With his own mind. Behind them comes a squad of fifteen, all Invictus. None of them familiar. He takes a moment to look up above. _Didn’t even leave anyone with the plane running_ , he thinks. 

“James!” Zola yells down the stairs. “James, we know you are here. You must be quite confused.”

He smiles. Oh yes, he’s so very confused so he returned to the only real home he’s known. He’s going to enjoy watching them die.

“You know I wanted you from the very moment I saw you in Germany,” Zola continues. “It was fate that brought us back together. Over and over again. And it is fate that has brought you to us here again.”

He remains silent.

“It’s not working, doc,” Rumlow says. “Hey Soldier! I miss you in my bed!”

_Don’t say a fucking thing, Steve,_ he thinks, and miraculously, the coms stay silent. Maybe Sam or Nat got to him first. 

At last they reach the bottom. He lets them reach the center of the room before he drops his shining back to normal level. He smiles as he watches the ghosts stagger and lurch towards their murderers.

Jarvis, thankfully, does not translate the screams that are undoubtedly coming from the monsters around him. The Invictus begin to cycle. Pierce goes down first. The ghosts rip and tear at his flesh. 

“Fish in a barrel,” he says over the coms, giving the order for Steve, Sam and Nat to open fire. 

Rumlow has started back up the stairs, looking on in horror of what’s happening around him. The men and women flickering in and out of existence, painfully dying, until only their eyes remain, looking around wildly, until their last cycle comes. 

“He’s mine,” Steve says into the coms as Rumlow flees up the stairs. Steve doesn’t even give him a chance. One moment Rumlow is there on the landing in front of Steve and the next moment Steve takes Rumlow’s head off his shoulders with his shield. 

Nat and Sam circle the landings on their levels, taking out anyone moving towards the stairs. Bucky smiles. They’re finished here. Just one more to go. Arnim is cowering in the corner when Bucky finds him. He sees his mouth moving, but Jarvis doesn’t translate. Ah, he’s using the words. They made certain to have the words untranslatable as an extra precaution. 

“Arnim, Doctor Zola, Doctor Z, Handler. It’s over now.” He slips a knife from its holder. “It’s funny. Your family being called Invictus. Unconquerable. And here you are,” he pushes the blade into Zola’s neck and holds it, “conquered.” 

He rips the knife from Zola’s throat and watches as the man begins his own cycle. He watches all the way to the end and Zola’s eyes never leave his.

“Buck?” Steve says from behind him. Not over the coms. He looks around the room. It’s only the three of them and a lot of piles of clothes. He takes his earpiece out.

“The ghosts?” Nat asks.

“Gone,” he says. “Steve?”

His hands are shaking. His body finally dropping from the adrenaline high and using so much of his shine. Steve seems to know and is there, putting Bucky’s arm around his shoulder.

“This was easier when you were smaller,” he says.

“Saying the same joke twice. That’s sad Buck.” 

They start up the stairs. 

“It was seventy years ago. That’s long enough to repeat a joke,” he says.

“I think eighty years is the earliest you can repeat a joke.”

“You’re such a punk.”

“Jerk,” Steve laughs. 

* * *

“Are you sure you’re alright with this?” Bucky asks him again.

It's been seventy years since their war and two months since he got Bucky back. He is ready for this.

“They _all_ know where to find me if there’s a world ending emergency.” He walks up behind Bucky and wraps his arms around him. “Are you sure _you’re_ alright with this?”

“A trip with you around the country. No fighting. Just us and so so much sex. Yes, I think I’m alright with this.”

“Alright, well, Natasha sent me some nice places off the beaten path in Maine.”

“No! No Stevie,” he says. “Literally _anywhere_ but Maine.”

“Like _all of Maine_?”

Bucky nods his head enthusiastically. “All of Maine.”


End file.
